When Shadows Fall
by Sabari
Summary: Tim discovers the journey to being a hero is no easy one, nor is the road to redemption short, as he fights to escape from a past unwilling to let him go, and comes into conflict with Batman, Nightwing and the Team. For the heroes of the world, there are no easy answers. Perhaps slightly AU. Non-slash/non-pairing.
1. Prologue

"_And I declared that the dead,  
who had already died,  
are happier than the living,  
who are still alive._

_But better than both  
is the one who has never been born,  
who has not seen the evil  
that is done under the sun"_

_-Ecclesiastes 4:2-3_

* * *

Thunder rolled in the sky behind a curtain of angry black clouds, crashing overhead like huge icebergs breaking against one another, or great beasts clashing violently over a scrap of meat.

It was little wonder that the ancient people saw storms as being caused by wars between vengeful Gods. A heavy crack of thunder, rolling low enough to vibrate one's very bones, was followed through the night by a flash of stark white-lightning.

An icy wind, caught up in the storm, blew across the rooftops and wound its way down into the city, a gale strong enough to knock over the trash cans in the alleys. Rain fell in frozen sheets, eery colors contained within the watery curtain, lit now and then by the lightning, flashing so brightly that night seemed turned into a depthless day.

A haunting black shadow figure slid through the night, as invisible in the dark as in the light, a ghostly but all-pervading presence, an unyielding and malignant pressure against the tremulous will of the hunted. A creature of the hunt, running swift and low, eyes glowing in the blaze of lightning which struck down to the Earth from the sky.

The hunted, fleeing from the hunter, terror in every nerve and sinew, driven by a fear beyond that which held place in reality, a consuming horror of nightmare. From this, there could be no escape.

Yet, above the chaos of fear, there raged another sensation, one which held power over the living in a way that it could not with the dead. A fierce desire, burning like angry flame. The desire to survive. Desire outweighed fear, leading thought to govern action instead of panic.

Thunder cracked the silence, lightning shattered the night, a prelude of that which was to come.

In the brief white-light, dark eyes hidden behind a black mask looked up to the rooftops, guessing at the location of the pursuer. A moment of insight, knowledge almost preternatural in its intensity, told the pursued all they needed to know. There could be no escape, there would be no reprieve. Only the imminent violent clash, and then it would be all over.

The hunter paused, seeing that the prey had turned to fight. A not unsympathetic glint came into his eyes, which were also partially hidden by a mask. The prey was smart. He'd stopped before being run into the ground, while he still had the energy to fight. Panic had not rendered him blind to all threats. He had chosen his ground carefully, cornered himself because he knew there was no escape, preventing his pursuer from coming in behind him. He did not startle at every sound the rain made, keeping his senses trained upwards, in the direction he knew the hunter to be.

Was this wisdom innate, or had it been learned somewhere along the way?. The hunter had to wonder this, even as he questioned the truest origin of his own prowess. His own training had begun so early that he could not recall a time when it had not been coming into place. He did not allow the question to slow his advance, moving even as his brain shuffled his thoughts into their proper order, focusing his mind and body on the fight at hand.

He was larger than his adversary, but knew well that size made difference only in fighting style, not in who would in the end achieve victory. He was stronger, and faster. And he had to believe that he was better trained, until proven otherwise. He allowed confidence to show in his every movement, as he tread on the line between unseen and not, darkness and light.

For the first time, he allowed the lightning to cast his outline into the light, revealing himself to his prey. A calculating stare fell on him, taking in his height and weight, size and form. He let it happen, just as he let the cold rain pour down on him, seeking no shelter from the icy waters which drenched him to the skin. And too, he looked upon his prey in new light.

Standing defensively, a small body in the torrential downpour, looking almost frail as the wind buffeted the lithe frame unmercifully and tore at the black cape. The sight had an effect on the hunter, devastating in nature. For a moment, he seemed to be repelled by it, yet savagely fascinated.

The two figures stood staring at one another, as though neither quite believed the other to be real. It was the hunter who broke the silence, an uncertain undertone to his fiercely spoken words.

"You... you're dead. You died."

"You cannot kill an idea," the other spoke with equal measures of fear and confident wisdom.

"But an idea can be corrupted. That is what you've done."

"I had no choice."

"Everyone has a choice," the hunter said roughly.

"Not me."

A sense of puzzlement rippled through the figure in black, his eyes searched the one whom he had hunted for what seemed like ages. What did that mean?. He wondered if it were truth or lie, wondered how he could tell. He decided that he did not care.

"I will not let you use my brother's name in this way."

"Stop me. If you can," the caped figure challenged, having to shout over a sudden crash of thunder.

"I can. And rest assured I _will_."

The time for words had now passed. It was time to do battle. The fight as natural as that between winter and summer, predator and prey, light and dark, the future and the past. What had been, and what would be. It was also a conflict between two sides of the same coin. As though thunder and lightning had at once come to be at odds with one another, for reasons unknown.

They came together, and the one who had been master of the hunt could feel the wildness in his opponent. Untrained, but in no way uncoordinated, the boy was every bit as ferocious as his words had been. There was caution in his eyes which spoke of fear, yet that did not translate into action. But the boy was hopelessly outmatched, his every move betrayed his inexperience.

_What I would not give to have this one on my side, to be trained as I have been._

Such were the thoughts of the older one, who had driven the other into this corner, had forced this fight. Yet he felt he had no other option, unless he were to betray everything which he wanted his name to stand for. Both his present name... and his past.

The boy used only a bo staff, though he wore a utility belt not unlike the fallen hero whose name he had stolen. He understood the concept of multiple tools with which to defend himself, but was unable to switch fluidly from one method of defense to another.

In deference to the boy's obviously limited ability, his adversary stuck to his own preferred weapons, twin eskrima sticks. He felt his victory was assured, yet somehow wanted to give the boy a fighting chance. He didn't understand why that was.

He'd come after this thief in anger, this one who had taken his former title and the name of his brother, dragged them through the mud and tarnished the long unspoiled monicker which had once meant something, stood for something, yet now was reduced to nothing at all.

Just a name, the ideal behind it now lost because of what this one had done.

But he didn't feel anger towards the boy now. There was something of himself in the untamed way the boy fought, the bold way he whirled to face his attacker time and again, giving no ground but that which was forced from under him. In fact, he kind of liked this kid.

It might have bewildered onlookers to see such a fight, between two opponents so clearly unevenly matched, one fighting his losing battle bravely, while the other seemed reluctant to end it. What looked most strange, however, was not what was happening, but who was involved.

For any passerby, had there been any on this dark and stormy night, it looked as though Nightwing and Robin were locked into a death match, where only Nightwing could emerge victorious.

But none saw, not even those who knew the truth. Robin had died less than three months before. It was an open wound for Nightwing, who would not let this imposter live long enough to tell of the things he had done using Robin's name.

Yet there was a side to the story which Nightwing did not know.

The boy had always believed in the power of heroes, not just as protectors and avenging angels, but as symbols. Living monuments of valor, honor, loyalty, and (perhaps most of all) hope. In that respect alone, he was like virtually any child. Believing in the impossible, trusting to a fate which adults have deemed to be a cruel and unpredictable thing, seeing value in that which grown ups thought worthless.

But there was one thing which he could not see the worth of. And that was himself. He was small, weak and insignificant. Nobody needed him or even wanted him. He existed solely by the questionable grace of a mother who cared not at all for him and a father who would have been better off not having any children.

The boy's favorite hero was, naturally, the one which he could most relate to. Even though we may not understand or even realize it, most of us tend to like characters which we can either envision ourselves as being, or who possess qualities which we most favor, or have some small detail about them which is like us or someone whom we know and like very much (many a favorite character reminds one of their best friend, father, sibling or themselves when they were young, just as a hated character is like that one bad teacher, or super annoying classmate). To the boy, the single most interesting and wonderful hero in a lineup of strange and fantastically disguised saviors was the Boy Wonder himself, Robin.

There was something about the little red-clad imp standing beside the looming figure of the Caped Crusader that was endearing and familiar. Then too, there was the Boy Wonder's way of moving which denoted a high strung and easily bored individual, whose chosen occupation must be something truly special to keep him fascinated with it.

Of all the millions of people who watch television and surf the internet for their news, the boy alone was the one who noticed it, and knew what it meant. He knew in his head, in his heart, in his bones, in the very fabric of his being. Reports on superheroes were always frequent and often false, and, though seldom mentioned, Robin was often pictured vaguely in shadows alongside Batman or that other bunch, the ones who were like the Justice League but not. And then, he suddenly wasn't.

The hero who had inspired the boy from the time he was so young he could barely talk, the seemingly immortal masked hero, the vigilante who had always inspired him and given him hope, was dead.

The world spun on, oblivious, but the boy... the boy was shattered to his core. It was as if his best friend, his only friend, had died. As if the world had suddenly opened up and swallowed him whole. The boy was utterly alone, with no way out, nothing to look forward to. He knew as surely as he knew his own name, that he would never see Robin again.

What he did not know, could not have known, was that the end was also the beginning.

The boy's name was Timothy Drake, and this is his story.

* * *

_A/N: This story is s__et pre-season 2, after season 1. It was written with total and gleeful disregard for Tim's comic book back story (I have read about it, I just didn't feel like writing it). Recall that Tim's back story is at no point discussed in the _Young Justice _series__. __This story is meant to be only slightly AU, mainly to allow for the series timeline.  
_

_This story is completely written, 20 chapters in all (including prologue). As per usual, I will upload one chapter per day (Barring anything out of the ordinary. I will attempt to give readers a head's up via A/N). __This was written for my entertainment, and is being published for yours. If you find yourself not enjoying it, then you should feel perfectly free to stop reading. __Heap praise or criticism upon it, whichever may suit you best. Or say nothing about it at all, if you would prefer._

_While this story clearly takes place in the same universe as _Fear the Dark_, it is a stand alone story and not truly a sequel._

_I believe the T rating to be sufficient, but I may well be mistaken. Please, don't hesitate to inform me if you think the material discussed ought to be rated M._

_Brace yourselves, Batgirl fans, because you're not gonna like this :P_


	2. Beginning at the End

_The howling of overstressed metal, screeching of machinery spinning so fast, so out of control that it threatened to destroy itself and all around it, drowned out all else. Blue-white veins of pulsing energy spread like spider webs across the ceiling, forked and flashing like lightning. Arcs of dangerous electrical current spat and snapped across the room, skittering and sliding across the concrete flooring like sidewinders, seemingly ignoring all laws of physics._

_One needed no special understanding of mechanics, electronics or any knowledge of how and why this situation had come into being to grasp that, whatever was going on, things were going to Hell in a hand-basket. Whatever should be happening, this was not it. It didn't matter if you were good or evil, wise or foolish, human or inhuman, you could tell that things were bad. Very, very bad._

_This was the exact wrong place to be, and the absolute worst time to be there._

Someone is going to die.

_The realization hit Nightwing like a bullet to the gut. This was his mission, the people here were those whom he had picked out especially for it. They were his team, his friends, his family. One of them, he knew with absolute certainty, was going to die here._

_He'd felt the same sensation only once before, seconds before his parents fell to their deaths..._

* * *

_January 5__th__, 03:00 AM_

_Wayne Manor_

...It was the scream of Robin which woke him, but it was his own voice that Nightwing heard.

He bolted upright in bed, panting and sweating, shaking from the living nightmare which was his memory, a thing he had learned long ago that he could not escape. As he sat, trying to reclaim a measure of composure, he sensed someone at his door.

He must have cried out. He knew the presence of Bruce all too well. But Wayne would not enter, not knowing as he must that this was a mere nightmare, the like of which he often had himself. It would only serve to wound Nightwing's dignity for Bruce to see him now.

He had awakened as Nightwing, but quickly slipped into the guise of Dick Grayson. Even without the mask, he was Nightwing more often than Dick these days. Especially now, after...

He shook his head. It wouldn't do any good to think about it now. He'd already lost this night's sleep. The funeral was later on today. It wouldn't do for Jason Todd to have died right at the same time as Robin. Now, a week later, was much less suspicious.

But was it really?. Dick felt sure that Bruce had put it off simply because he did not want to bury his son, yet another member of his crumbling family. Dick couldn't say he wanted to either. His arrogance... that's what had killed Jason. He had no one to blame but himself. He knew Bruce did, even though the man denied it vehemently. Dick could see it in his adoptive father's eyes.

Though it was the dead of night, a pale glow crept across the floor like a phantom from the window. Dick got up and went to the window-seat. Beyond the frozen glass was a world of glittering snow, the city buried under the cold white which seemed to breathe with light all its own, regardless of both sun and moon, seeming soft, warm and alive in spite of all evidence to the contrary.

Above the city, far beyond reach lay the sky, a dome of fluid gray, hinting at the sun to come even as the rest of the world could only dream of it, only remember its passing.

"_Were we but as eternal as the sun"_

The words originated in something Dick had read, maybe a play. He wasn't even sure that was the exact line, but it's what came to mind. The lament was a foolish one, Dick knew. He knew many long-lived or even immortal beings, and he did not envy them their marriage to eternity. It was better to be mortal, to end before your world, not to have to watch it dissolve and crumble about you, witnessing the slow decay of all that lived and breathed.

But to have outlived one who was more spontaneously alive than you could ever be... to continue on when one far younger is already dead and gone... it was a pain Dick knew would never go away. All the reason in the world couldn't dull it.

Not knowing that Jason had wanted this life, would never have accepted anything else. Not even realizing that Jason had known the risks as well as anyone, had known them and accepted them. It didn't make Dick feel any better, it didn't make his brother's death make sense.

Dick wouldn't cry for his fallen brother. He would not dishonor Jason's memory by asking why it had happened. But he could not stop himself from asking the question: _what could I have done differently?_. Was there something he could have done or said to prevent this from happening?. He'd known, felt it deep inside, that someone was going to die. But he'd just... let it happen.

The chill he felt was not a result of the frozen outdoors. It came from within. If there was an empty space where love for his brother had been, that might have made it easier. Instead, a ragged hole had been torn inside, then filled by memories both painful and dear.

Above all was the knowledge that he, that Nightwing, must go on. Must continue. The greatest hurt was in knowing that he would return to the streets and would be just as before, even while his brother... never would. He would continue to answer the ancient call, the silent demand for heroes to step up and fight evil. He was bound to it. As Bruce was. As Jason... had been.

Of that, there could be no question, nor any hesitation. Dick responded to the pull of the mask more readily than his own grief and for that, above all else, he felt savagely guilty.

His casual relationship with life and death, his understanding of the paper thin line between them, seemed more a curse than a blessing. Sometimes he wished he'd never known death, so that he might not even understand the value of life. Were that the case, then perhaps Nightwing would not have such a hold over him. If wishes were horses...

* * *

_09:00 AM_

_Gotham Cemetery_

The truest friends of Jason Todd were not at the funeral. They could not be, not without risking revealing who he was and why he had died and, subsequently, what they were. But there were casual acquaintances whom he had met at school and on the street, many of whom wept bitterly for their own loss, uncomprehending of how much the world had truly lost. To them, he was just another friend, just another face. They did not know, could not see, the priceless nature of the hero beneath the name.

Perhaps it was best that they did not. As it was, they felt their sorrow to be genuine. It was blessedly uncomplicated, pure grieving for one whom they had loved without realizing it until he was gone. They could cry for themselves and each other without bitterness, innocently oblivious of the true price which had been paid for them. Jason had gone out a hero, protecting the world and people he loved. The gain for the world was equal to its loss, thus sadness was in an inexplicable way very selfish.

But they did not know. They were not bound to be silent, to hide the truth behind their eyes, to say nothing of value about their lost friend lest they betray that which he had died to protect. It was a weight they didn't even know about, and thus could not be relieved not to have to carry it as others did.

One thing they did know, however, was that Bruce Wayne had been as a father to the boy, Dick Grayson his brother. Even simple everyday kind of people knew the depth of their sorrow was as nothing to that which hung over Wayne and Grayson like a sickly and blackened cloud.

Perhaps it should not have been surprising then that the most comforting words Dick heard that day came from a girl about Jason's age, one whom he knew only in passing from school. She came to Dick's side and laid a gentle hand on his arm, startling him.

Her warm blue eyes were sympathetic, a thin sheen of unshed tears glistening there.

"I have no idea what you're going through. I don't even really know you. I can't even begin to understand your pain. I won't try to tell you how to feel, or how things are going to be from now on. Nobody can do that. You're the one going through this, the only one who'll ever see what's on the other side for you. But I do know that Jason loved you, very much. It wasn't what he said, but what he did. He was glad to have you for his brother, to have been able to know you. I just thought... maybe that might make a difference to you somehow."

Then, without saying anything else, she threw her arms around Dick and hugged him. Words had deserted her, so she reached out in the only way she knew how. Though not much for open displays of affection, Dick didn't do anything to stop her, and even eventually hesitantly returned the hug. There was something in it, in this shared grief between two strangers. A moment of clarity, of reality, that briefly eased the pain, made it all make sense, if only for a second.

And then she was gone, disappearing through the crowd of mourners like a phantom.

* * *

_12:00 PM_

_Drake Residence, Gotham_

Timothy Drake tilted his head where he knelt on the floor, listening to the voices in the next room. The man had come to argue with his mother again. He almost never knocked, always barging right in. He'd broken the lock that first time, and Tim's mother had never bothered to repair it.

After all, what had she to fear besides the man?. Locks and bolts could not keep him out, and she would have let him in if they could. She both loved and hated the man, the man who took from her all that was good and left her with what he did not want. And she was grateful, as was a dog who got scraps from his master's table.

The voices raised, to the point that Tim could well understand the meaning behind them. The man was angry. Tim's mother had not given him as much as he wanted, though she'd given all she had, and so he would not even leave the scraps she so desperately craved. She begged and pleaded, and he struck her. With a humiliated cry, she crashed to the floor, where she remained, sobbing wretchedly.

Tim did not go to her. For her there could be no sympathy. She had opened the door and invited the Devil in, knowing exactly what she was getting. So she ought not be surprised that this was the result. The man had never deceived her, for there was no need. She had deceived herself for him.

Tim returned to what he was doing. The textbook laid out before him was ill-used, dirty and worn beyond what he in his time could have done to it. It was outdated, but that made little difference to him for it contained within its partially burned pages all of the information he sought.

The slamming of the front door made him look up briefly. The man was gone in a fit of carefully measured rage. Just enough for Tim's mother to bend to his will, to submit herself to whatever he wanted of her. Tim had seen it a thousand times over, seen her crumble to the greasy, gaunt man. But the man could not take by force what she did not have. Soon he would have no further use for the aging whore. And then, Tim knew with sad certainty, she would wither away, turn to dust blown by the uncaring wind. And he would be alone.

Oh well. He was already alone.

"If only I'd had a daughter!," his mother's wail pierced the silence, but he did not let her words settle on him, knowing she wanted to transfer her misery to him in order to cure herself of it "I went through pregnancy and childbirth, only to have a son!. Why couldn't you have been a daughter, Timothy!?."

A child cannot make himself deaf to his mother, even when he knows the venomous lies which she speaks. Tim arose slowly, head down, and opened the door to his room.

His mother was on the floor, convulsing with sobs. She looked up from her self-pitying moaning and her eyes flashed at sight of her only child. Her sorrowful face twisted into a mask of fury.

"This is your fault!. It's your fault that I suffer!. Have you no shame!?."

"Have you?," Tim asked, low-voiced.

She flew at him then, and he let her catch him and pin him to the wall. He let her bony fingers close about his wrist and twist it behind him, pressing into his back like a knife. He did not fight her, save for the few words which escaped him:

"Mother, you're hurting me," the words were not a plea, but a resignation to fate.

She knew she was hurting him, and that gave her a perverse kind of pleasure. Still, she let him go when he spoke, spat on him and cursed his father's name.

"If that bastard had only given me a daughter!. Then I should be living well instead of in squalor!. I should be a queen... a goddess, not... _this_."

Tim did not lift his voice to argue with her, but a pain throbbed inside him like a stuck thorn. Even knowing the truth of the situation did not make him numb to his mother's plight. He heard her anguish, and could not ignore it. For he was of her blood, she was all he'd known.

"Here," he reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of wadded dollar bills "for you."

He spoke heavily, with the same resignation as earlier. He knew of wrong and right, could recognize both for what they were, yet he felt powerless in face of reality, which forced out a darkness within, making him act as the corrupt and greedy for the sake of the mother whom he adored and despised.

Just as she loved and hated the man who gave her drugs in return for the sacrifice of her purity.

She ran her thumbs along the dirty edges of the money, her eyes on the material treasure now in her possession, rather than on her son. He gazed at her, looking at her hunched over the money like it was her salvation, acting as though it had magically appeared in her hands like a gift from above.

A gift from below was more like it.

"You've been stealing again," she said, ever so briefly lifting her eyes to her son.

For an instant, she looked as though she were truly mother to him. And then the look was gone, consumed by want which she mistook for need. She would do anything, _anything_, to get what she wanted, consequences be damned.

She fairly flew to the door, hurrying after the man, the giver of poison, as though she were eager to facilitate her own demise. Tim watched her go, and returned to his room with its books.

The books were also "stolen" in a manner of speaking. Snatched from dumpsters and garbage cans, of value to him even as they were considered worthless by others. He did not take that which others wanted for himself. But, for his mother, he would do anything, in spite of what he knew.

Or perhaps because of it.

His mother came into his room like a tornado, without knocking first. She came at him as though angry, but there were tears in her eyes as she fell to her knees and threw her arms around him in a loveless hug, trying to express that which she no longer felt, to restore the bond between mother and child in one frantic display of affection.

"You must do something for me," she croaked in his ear.

He didn't speak to her, nor respond in any way. She hadn't asked him if he would do something, but told him that he must. He knew the signs. She was about to ask him to do wrong, something no mother should ever ask her child to do. It was her responsibility to teach him what was good and what was evil, but she instead did the opposite, knowing full well what was right yet turning her face away from it, running ever further from the light.

"I am no longer beautiful," she cried "men don't want me anymore. So you must do this for me. For me, for your mother, you must take what we need. What I need. You must never be caught, it must never be traced back to me. They would take you away, and lock me up. Do you understand?. I am your mother, you must do this for me. For _me_, do you understand?."

"I understand," Tim's voice was emotionless, cold.

She did not have to beg, nor command. She didn't need to present herself to him as the man presented himself to her. She was his mother. He knew her well, knew what she wanted, had known before she had ever asked. Did he not give her money before she asked him for it?.

For her, for his mother the parasite, he would do anything.


	3. Mother is the Name for God

_January 7__th__, 08:30 PM_

_Gotham_

The occasional picked pocket wouldn't be enough, Tim knew. It was enough for him and his mother to eat, but not enough to support her addiction, which consumed all of her being until there was nothing left for him. She knew only that she wanted, that she hurt if she did not get what she craved. Once she had it, she had only to revel in it until it was gone. She had no interests outside of this one thing which had stepped in and slowly taken over all aspects of her life. She wanted nothing else.

Tim needed to kick things up a notch. But he also had to be more careful. If the man found that Tim's mother had a source of income, he would squeeze her for all she was worth, and perhaps even attempt to persuade or bully Tim into his thrall. At the moment, the man thought of Tim only as an unsightly growth, gruesomely attached to the woman who sold her soul for his false pleasures.

And so it must remain. If Tim proved to have value... well, it wouldn't be long before the Devil came knocking, demanding an alliance. Due to age and circumstance, Tim would have no recourse but to allow the slime to drag him down into the darkness which his mother willingly dwelt in.

And so he created a disguised for himself, unknowingly fashioning his own future in the cloth. His sewing skills were crude, but got the job done. Knowing he might be recognized if his arms were exposed, Tim put long sleeves on the costume. Besides which, short sleeves in Gotham in the winter seemed like a bad idea to him.

He donned the mask, knowing full well that it had been meant for a hero but would now be used ill by him, for criminal acts which there could be no excuse for.

He crouched on the fire escape outside the apartment he shared with his mother, swaying in the fiercely driving wind, listening to the rusted metal creak beneath his weight combined with the oncoming storm. A new Robin came into being.

Robin knew he must measure his targets carefully. Too high profile would lead to exposure, the police would hound him relentlessly until they caught him. He knew his limits. But he could not afford to stick only to the ones with little to steal either. Each hunt must be successful, or else what little family he had left would be destroyed. People of means, but not too much means, of the class who would carry cash rather than credit, perhaps who wore trinkets of value such as expensive watches or necklaces.

He had seen this coming for a long time, yet it had come upon him suddenly, without warning.

Even so, he found that he had thought it all through. And he had been carefully building up to this for years. Though only thirteen, he had already spent the majority of his life fending for himself. To do that, you had to be tough, you had to be fast, and you had to be smart. Not just good at strategy, but also reasonably effective at dealing with the unexpected. No plan survives contact with the enemy. He'd learned that from one of the books he'd read, then applied it to his reality.

The key to survival was not truly evading capture, but escaping once caught before you got killed. Avoiding getting caught was easy, but your luck would sooner or later run out on that count. Sooner or later, someone faster or stronger would catch up with you. To survive, you must be willing to do almost anything to the enemy, or to yourself. Escape was everything.

One of the most important factors in escape depended on the enemy not knowing where you lived. Robin knew better than to hunt near home. He must go far afield if he wanted to last in this world, lest the wolves one day follow him home and come beating down his door.

There was another danger of which he was acutely aware. There was always the chance that he would be caught, not by police or thugs, but by vigilantes. Gotham was home to Batman and Batgirl, and a frequent haunt of Nightwing. To meet any one of them spelled certain doom for this lawless incarnation of Robin. He felt a twinge of guilt for stealing the identity, but it was for his own protection.

Robin was known, not new on the scene. It would throw the man's suspicions off of him, as well as end potential fights with victims before they began. It was his safest option. Perhaps his only reasonable one, given the circumstances. In any case, it was all he could think of.

What he did not count on was the fame of Robin betraying him...

* * *

_January 12__th__, 11:30 AM_

_Drake Residence_

The night's hunting had gone badly. Tim had known at the start that there would be times like this. Depending on weather and current events and personal need, the number of people walking the streets varied greatly. But it was more than that. When his mother had determined that she could get much from Tim, she had immediately demanded all he could produce for her.

Tim was wiser than to let on how much he could truly acquire. He knew his mother would forget his welfare and even her own in favor of serving the man who brought only disease and torment. Even so, she asked much of him, and he was tired.

More than that, word had gotten around that someone was hunting. The section of Gotham Tim had staked out for his territory was fast turning paranoid from being hit too often. It didn't take long for people to become fearful and cautious, especially in Gotham.

In the other room, he could hear his mother doing a very foolish thing. Rather than do without, or make do with less, she asked for her usual, even knowing she could not afford it. The man had held her in his thrall for a long time, and knew that he could force her to make good on her debt... one way or the other. But he did not immediately grant her that which she desired.

Tim listened to the masculine voice, raised in feigned anger, ringing clear with disgust. He heard the words spoken in whip-like tongue, yet not a single curse or epithet was necessary. Something with glass was thrown and smashed against the floor. Tim heard his mother scream, knew the man would be grabbing her hair and forcing her to her knees. Now his voice would be low and smooth in her ear, stating in horrific detail what would happen to her if she did not do as he asked.

It was a routine which seemed to inspire fear in Tim's mother, though it had been done a hundred times before with mechanical precision. What Tim could accomplish if he could only inspire such terror with a mere look as the man did... he shook his head angrily and closed his eyes.

There was nothing to envy in the oily man with the beady eyes. Nothing worth his interest or respect. Nothing... nothing at all.

The door slammed, the man was gone.

"Tim...," his mother's voice was thin and shrill "Timmy... come here, Tim."

Tim's eyes flicked to the door, a ripple of unease ran through him and he looked away.

"Timmy. You're not deaf, son. Come when your mother calls," her voice was helplessly angry, almost more pleading than demanding, for she knew that she had no physical control over her son.

She had never established consistent authority over her child, and thus he came when he felt as though he wanted to. More than that, he had learned to avoid her when she was like this. Maybe she would come and punish him, but more likely she would just stay in the other room, yelling for him... maybe for hours. But if he came to her, surely she would vent her frustrations on him.

"Timothy. Tim. Timmy, Timothy... come in here... come... now," her words became like a chant, and were repeated without meaning or effect "Tim... Timmy come," her voice lowered in pitch, became something more like a moan "_Timmy_... please."

That, he could not ignore.

Heavily, he dragged himself to his feet and went to his door. There he hesitated, leaning against it, listening to his mother's crying on the other side. Nothing good could come from stepping through the door, he knew that. His mother did not call for him out of any sort of affection or gratitude. She called only because she wanted something of him.

Being who and what he was, he knew that he would do his best to give it to her, no matter what it was. There had been times, a few, when he had even assisted directly in her habit because she asked him to. Even knowing what it would do to her, and cause her to do to _him_.

_Anyone who knows what is right but fails to do it is guilty of sin._

That was in one of his books too. So he was guilty, as guilty as she who bore him. He knew this to be true and in no way tried to deny it, even to himself. But what else could he do?. She was his mother.

He opened the door and quietly crossed the room to where his mother knelt, holding a shattered picture frame, her tears falling on the exposed photograph. It was a picture of herself when she was younger, before she'd had Tim. Back before the drugs had done their sinister work on her body, before time had brought about its decay.

A lovely raven-haired beauty with a brilliant smile stared out of the photo, dressed in a provocative but not altogether distasteful shimmering evening gown. The single strap on the left shoulder accentuated the delicate bone structure, the darkness of the dress showed off her blemish free porcelain skin and sparkling eyes. A slit down the skirt revealed a single gorgeous leg, suggestive of the other hidden beneath.

Yet even then, she had not looked happy. Behind her eyes was a haunted look, the ghost of what she was to become in future. The picture was her one and only valued possession, the one thing she wouldn't sell, even if she were able. She clutched the photo to her breast, clinging to that past self, when she was pretty and alive, instead of a wasting skeleton just waiting to die. Born into luxury and money, she had fallen to this before Tim had been born.

Her sorrow pierced Tim to his core. Without thinking, he reached out to her. She leaned against him, her tangled hair falling across his shoulder and her hot tears stinging when they hit him. She let go of the photograph with one hand, so that she could take hold of Tim's right arm, pull it under her chin and hold it there, as though she might somehow sense the infant which had once been inside the young man whom she had so miserably failed to raise.

"If only... if only," Tim expected her to say the usual, that she wished she had a daughter, but those weren't the words which finally escaped through her hiccuping sobs "if only your father were here. M-maybe... if you... could... maybe you could get enough... he loved money when I knew him. I could try to find him... he might come back," she looked up at him through tear-matted lashes "Oh, Timmy, could you do that?. You could, I know you could."

"Mother, what are you talking about?."

"You have to get more. More for us. Lots more. Your father would come home, and... and we could be a family... we could be free."

Tim didn't believe that for an instant. He'd never met his father, but he did know his mother too well. Things would not be better, not until she changed her lifestyle. But she had made this misery for herself, and was too afraid to ever abandon it.

"Tim. You must do this for me."

She was his mother. What could he do?.

* * *

_January 18__th__, 08:00 PM_

_Westfield Manor_

"This is sick," Dick whispered to Bruce "why are we even here?."

"Remember who we are to these people," Bruce replied evenly, faking a smile for the people who recognized him at a distance and waved "how would it look if we didn't show up?."

"Like we think this is inappropriate, not to mention revolting," was the grumbled reply.

"An attitude fitting the other half of our lives, Dick."

Morna Westfield was a widower, she had married into her fortune. She was a good deal older than Bruce, and yet ever so slightly predatory towards him, as though the Westfield fortune were not enough for her. Perhaps she was trying to reclaim her youth by going after a younger man. She held this gathering (a rather undisguised party), supposedly in honor of Jason Todd, whom she had known only by sight. In truth, it was just to get people to come and admire her house, and to lure Bruce into her clutches so that she might try to seduce him.

As was his custom, Bruce Wayne had arrived late, and the party was well under way. Being flaky was his way of covering his secret. And, Dick thought, a way of subtly dissing the sort of wealthy who attended these parties, piranhas who would eat each other alive if it would further their own goals. These people were, in a way, more dangerous than any criminal, though most had inherited or married into money and therefor never lifted a finger towards doing an honest day's work in their lives.

A bunch of parasites, gathered together to party it up, stab each other in the back, share cruel gossip and further their private agendas, all in the name of a dear lost loved one who most of them had never even met.

As proof of this, Dick overheard two men talking, trying to remember the name of whoever this party was for. They eventually decided that maybe it was another party in honor of Morna Westfield's dear husband, departed from this Earth for five years now.

Dick had always wondered about the circumstances surrounding the man's death. Morna Westfield had been married to the man for less than two years before he had died, of natural causes. She'd been married before that, to another wealthy man. Gossip had it that she'd had a daughter with this first husband who had run away while still a teenager, run away to be with some bum she thought she loved. The daughter most assuredly existed, but Dick didn't know anything about her.

If asked to place a bet, he'd put his money on the notion that she'd departed merely to escape from her mother, a truly alarming cougar when younger, now sort of a creepy caricature of one.

A light clicked on, aimed at the head of the sprawling staircase. Speak of the devil.

Morna Westfield now deigned to appear at the party to which she was playing hostess. She must have waited for Bruce to arrive before making her presence felt. Dick could see that she'd been a pretty woman, might still be without all she'd done to "fix" herself and make herself more beautiful in society's shallow, soulless eyes.

High cheek bones, pale features, a cascade of hair which desperately wanted to be dark but was severely dyed platinum blond, perhaps to hide gray hairs. Her darkly green eyes were piercing, sweeping across the room like a hawk searching for prey. Her thin mouth, exaggerated with lipstick, was utterly without wrinkles, to hide that she spent more time frowning than not. She spotted Bruce and smiled, showing teeth white enough to be in a toothpaste commercial. She raised a thin hand with long fingernails painted a dark red. Then she descended the staircase with the poise granted her by years of training.

Dick recalled that she had once been a dancer, very talented yet without any class. Her beauty had won her first husband over, and Dick could see how. A sort of savage grace flowed through her every movement, her long lashes shadowed eyes which seemed to conceal any number of delicious secrets.

Bruce tried to hide in the crowd, but Morna wasted no time in closing the distance between them, sliding into his personal space like a pro, whispering suggestions in his ear, her intent clear as crystal in her delicately fashioned eyes.

_Subtle._ Dick thought sarcastically, shaking his head.

He wished Barbara were here. Then at least he'd have someone to stand in the corner with. As it was, he watched the crowd uneasily, hoping there were no girls his age here. As son of Bruce Wayne, even if he was adopted, he was a target. Money drew these people like sugar water draws bees. Aside from which, Dick was many things that most boys in his situation were not. Handsome, athletic, intelligent...

He did not want to be here. In fact, he wanted to be absolutely anywhere but here.

"Sorry about your brother. Jake, was his name?."

The feminine voice to his right startled Dick. A girl his age was staring up at him, making those eyes that meant but one thing. Icy blue circled by a darker ring, set obliquely in a heavily made up face, brunette hair highlighted with unnatural shades of red framing her down to the neck, which seemed to just flow into her shoulders and disappear into a too-tight black dress.

"Jason," Dick corrected her almost automatically.

"Whatever," in spite of his protests, she linked her arm with his and pressed against his side "I'm sure I could make you feel all better."

Dick couldn't take it. Anger welled up in him, which could not be quelled by the seductiveness of the girl's movements and inviting gaze. He was not above shallow, short-lived relationships. But not now, not like this. Not in Jason's name.

When he spoke, it was in a low growl, the tone he normally reserved for villains he especially despised.

"Get. Off me," his indigo eyes were hard, finishing which he had managed to keep himself from speaking allowed. _You cold, lifeless bitch._

* * *

_10:45 PM_

_Westfield Manor_

Robin watched from his perch as the party slowly petered out, strings of expensively dressed people exiting in fits and starts, most rather drunk and probably fortunate to have chauffeurs waiting to take them home. Laughter carried through the night, excessively loud and jubilant words were exchanged as people staggered and strode from the white mansion set on its extensive lawn, green in summer, now deathly brown beneath the deceptive blanket of holy white.

Robin perched in the branches of a mighty oak which stood virtually alone in the glowing whiteness, save for the great stone fountain in the middle of the driveway's turnaround. A masterfully detailed marble statue of a mermaid resting upon a slab of smooth stone, in summer pouring water from a slender pitcher in her hands. Water also ran down her scaled tail and splashed into the bowl below her. But now she was frozen, utterly still in the night, deep in winter trance, to be awakened come spring.

Robin didn't want to be here. This would be theft on a far grander scale than any he had attempted before. But his mother was in debt. She had continued to borrow from the man, and to press Robin to get a lot of money together so that she might buy back his father's love.

It was she who had chosen the target. Robin didn't know why, nor did he ask.

Jewelry would be the easiest thing for him to carry. He knew real jewels from costume, and could recognize value simply by looking. Theft of trinkets had been his trade before he fell into his mother's employ. He had to be able to tell what he was looking at from a distance, or risk capture for nothing more than bobbles. He could ill afford that.

The timing had been intentional. Robin had to get in now, while the party was winding down, before the mansion was locked up for the night. He didn't want to set off any alarms. Best case scenario, Mrs. Westfield wouldn't even know her jewels were gone until the morning at least.

The wide expanse of open space between himself and the mansion did little to shake Robin's confidence. There were plenty of shadows lent by heavy snow clouds overhead. He sat tense, waiting for some as yet unknown impulse to drive him forward. There was something about the mansion which unsettled him, some terrible danger of which he was wholly unaware.

He did not connect his relieved unease with the emergence of Bruce Wayne and his adopted son, his brain just barely registered their existence. He watched the two men in their severe black suits make their way to the waiting limo, get in and drive off, then sprang from his hiding place to the snow below, which crunched beneath his boots, seeming loud in spite of the surrounding noise.

Slipping around to the back of the mansion, Robin was quick to find that which he sought. Up on the second floor was a window left partially open. With no trees around it, the second floor probably seemed fairly secure. But Robin had fashioned a grappling hook for himself. He tossed it, and the hook caught on the roof. He checked the rope's security before starting the upward climb.

He found footing at the outside of the window in form of a narrow sill. He pushed the window open all the way, then loosed his grappling hook. He must leave no traces. Not while he was here, nor after he left. Perhaps it wouldn't matter, but it could easily make all the difference in the world.

The smell of the room told its story. It was recently painted, the cold air was meant to help it dry. The door to the outer hall was closed and locked, but that was little obstacle for Robin.

He slipped into the hall, and quickly sought out the master bedroom, where most women kept their valuables. Close to them, as though their presence could somehow protect against thieves. Robin shone a flashlight across the surface of the mahogany dresser.

Several open jewelry boxes littered the dresser. His quick eyes told real from fake, and he took all that seemed unlikely to be missed. He avoided rings, as any might potentially be a wedding or engagement ring. The woman had been married multiple times, and was now widowed. She would surely miss her wedding band if she wasn't wearing it (or them?).

Robin did not even hear Mrs. Westfield's approach, so well had she been trained to move with a sort of fragile grace. Silence of movement was not an art exclusive to martial artists and thieves. But Robin did hear the doorknob turn. He snapped off the light at once and rolled to the bedside, where he crouched low, breathing shallowly.

Morna Westfield entered the room at an angle, in the process of removing her earrings. She lifted a hand to switch on the light and then turned towards her dresser, which was across from the bed. It was then that Robin realized that he had made a grave mistake. A large mirror sat atop the dresser, revealing everything beyond, including him.

He froze where he was, wrapped in his black cape, his only concealment against the darkly red bed comforter. He forced himself to keep breathing, knowing that he couldn't hold his breath long enough to ensure his escape. For what seemed a long time, Morna wrestled with her earring, then at last it came off and she sighed, then turned her head to begin removing the other.

She stopped, hands halfway to her ear, her green eyes latching on to Robin's reflection in the mirror. She turned to face him, her mouth opened and she screamed. One loud, long, high-pitched blast of noise erupted from lungs trained to sing opera.

Robin scrambled to his feet and made for the door. Mrs. Westfield didn't stop him, simply holding that single accusatory note as she watched him flee. Halfway to the room with the open window, Robin encountered a pair of security guards coming up the stairs towards him. He hesitated, but saw no alternative. Taking a deep breath to steady himself, he kept going.

In a fluid motion born of countless escapes, he lunged upward, landing on the shoulders of the first security guard as the man reached the head of the stairs, using him to leap over the other. Robin hit the floor hard, dropping to one knee and rolling before regaining his feet and continuing on.

He reached the room with inches to spare. There was no time to shut the door, nor to employ his grappling hook. He had but one chance, and that only if the snow was deep enough. Robin dived headfirst out the window, somersaulted as he fell and landed with his weight on his left foot. He sank deep into the snow and rolled several feet, carried by momentum.

Dizzy, exhilarated and terrified at the same time, Robin scrambled to get to his feet and make good his escape. If he could make it off the property, his list of possible hiding places was virtually limitless. It was dark, and friendly shadows stretched welcoming arms towards him from all directions.

As he swung around the side of the house, he noticed that the party guests were all gone. His timing had been off. His reluctance to enter the mansion might well cost him his life.

From somewhere off to his left there came the imperious barking of large dogs. A pair of dobermans careened around the side of the mansion, leaping through the snow like some kind of mutant rabbits. Robin was a lot closer to the fence than he was to the dogs, and that proved to be his saving grace.

He scaled the fence, shaking with adrenaline. Near to the top, the dogs finally caught up. One leaped upwards, snapping and snarling. White fangs sank deep into Robin's leg and he let out a yell, instinctively kicking the dog in the head with his free leg. The dog yelped and let go, falling back to the ground. Robin dragged himself over the fence.

Pain shot up his leg, he was blind with it. But he kept going. This was no place to stop and assess injury. He had to go, right now. Robin limped through the snow, and breathed a sigh of gratitude when the ominous clouds finally dropped their burden of snow, which served to cover his tracks.


	4. The Price of Failure

_12:00 AM_

_Drake Residence_

Robin dragged himself into his room through the window and tumbled onto the worn mattress he called his bed. He lay there panting -no, gasping- for air, his breath coming in painful wheezes. Moving as little as was necessary, he slipped the shoulder strap of his bag over his head and let the object slide to the floor, unmindful of the valuable contents within.

In the other room, he could hear his mother mumbling. She had promised to wait until he got back, but her word was evidently worth very little. Robin lay on his back, listening to her, his leg throbbing painfully. He was too exhausted to do anything about it save try and ignore it.

_I don't want to do this, to be this way._

The thought articulated itself clearly, ringing through his weary brain, forcing him to hear it, the thing which he had been avoiding thinking about his whole life, but especially recently.

_This is not the kind of person I want to be._

He had already known this. Why else would he choose Robin as his disguise?. Why masquerade as one who was undisputedly heroic if not because you secretly wanted to be that person more than yourself?. A wave of shame swept over him. This mask, this name, it belonged to someone else. Someone who was actually a good person, who did great things.

Tim sat up and ripped the mask off in a fit of sudden anger, threw it across the room with a snarl more animal than human. He glared at where the mask came to rest, as though his eyes were capable of burning it, or otherwise erasing what he had done.

He realized uneasily that there was now a third entity in this family dynamic. There was his mother. There was him. And there was Robin, the person whose name he had taken. Whose name he had _stolen_.

* * *

_January 19__th__, 08:37 AM_

Dick woke up late. He'd gone on a mission with the Team, which had taken up most of the night. He sort of stumbled into wakefulness after a little over three hours of sleep, hearing voices downstairs.

He could hear Bruce, and a female... Morna Westfield. Her voice seemed like a bird's twitter, yet it carried and was somehow both low and high at the same time. Dick looked at the clock and grumbled to himself. This was no hour to be entertaining guests. Especially not _that_ guest.

He got up, every muscle responding only begrudgingly to his commands. He staggered off to the bathroom, washed and got dressed and organized his thoughts into a presentable arrangement. He came down the stairs slowly, hoping to pass unnoticed into the kitchen.

A single word, a name, stopped him in his tracks. _Robin_.

He turned in the direction of the living room and started towards it unconscious of doing so, wanting to hear more, instinctively driven to gather information about anything which caught his interested.

"Bad enough that there are vigilantes out there," Mrs. Westfield was saying "but when they start _stealing_... Good gracious, what sort of heroes can they really _be_?."

"Do you know what the boy took from you?," there was a hard edge to Bruce's voice, and he carefully avoided using the name of the reported thief.

"Several thousand dollars worth of my best jewelry. It's a lucky thing that I got there when I did. He might have gotten my wedding ring. The one from my first husband.," she added the last hastily.

Dick could almost hear all the things Bruce wanted to say. That this wasn't Robin, but some twisted bastard making a mockery of the hero's good name. That Robin was dead, and this monster was sullying his memory by doing this in his name. But Bruce could not say those things, not without risking exposing himself and all who worked with him.

Fury, irrational and toxic, ran in shudders through Dick. It was one thing to commit crimes and prey upon the helpless, but to do so in Robin's name... that was an inexcusable offense.

"Do the police have any leads?," Bruce's voice was forced level, showing only concern to Morna but revealing multiple levels of anger to Dick.

"None worth speaking of. He wore gloves and a mask. I didn't get a good look at him, he hid himself with a cape. But I could see that he was a teenager, very thin, almost pitiable really. Strange...," her voice trailed off.

"What?," Bruce prompted.

"It was just...his face... he looked so familiar to me."

"You think you know him?," Bruce asked, trying not to sound too eager for this information.

"No, it wasn't that. But he reminds me of someone... someone I once knew," her next words dismissed the subject "but enough about that. I want to talk about happier things." _Like us_, was the obvious suggestion behind those words.

Dick didn't wait to hear more. He went downstairs at once to the batcave to begin gathering as much information as he could about recent thefts in the area, particularly any information news sources had on the robbery that had taken place last night at Westfield Manor.

* * *

_12:05 PM_

_Drake Residence_

Dull pain accompanied Tim's every movement, and that included breathing. His senses were numb with it, his thoughts were sluggish after last night's escapade. His body felt battered and bruised, the bite from the dog had swollen and was hot to the touch, but it hadn't done a lot of damage. The wound seemed to pulse with a life of its own each time his heart beat in his chest.

He'd meant to go out and sell the jewelry first thing in the morning to contacts who could move the stuff, or hold it until it wasn't hot any longer, but he hadn't been able to sleep, had slipped in and out of fevered nightmares the entire night and most of the morning.

His mother had come and demanded he give up what he'd gotten. She'd looked in the bag he'd pointed to, and seemed satisfied. Now the man had come and she was showing what she had to him. Tim knew then that he was doomed. The man would recognize the catch from pictures posted online, could not miss it. He knew now where Tim's mother had gotten her steady income from.

Voices raised, Tim's mother cried out as she tried to block the way to Tim's room and was roughly thrown aside. The man opened the door so abruptly that it banged loud against the wall. He stood there, a horrid, detestable man, not especially short or tall, merely ugly with powerful ape arms which seemed too big for his body.

Tim, sitting cross-legged on his mattress, turned bored eyes on the man. Tim's mother stood nearby, gathering her final shreds of conscience to her in order to defend her son.

"You can't take him. He's my son!," she wailed.

The man sneered at her, and did not answer. Instead, he stepped into the room, his movement a menacing one. Tim measured him carefully, as he had a hundred times before. Litheness to the point of being gaunt made up the man's build, save for the bulk created by his arms and shoulders. He moved fluidly, each muscle rippling with a kind of tense power.

Tim looked up at him, did not rise to meet the challenging stare, instead letting his body language and expression convey his resignation, if not his subservience.

"You'll do anything for your ma, huh, kid?," the man asked.

Tim didn't answer, he didn't have to. The proof was in the news, in the bag he'd given his mother, and clutched in the man's greasy palm in form of a diamond necklace.

"She told me what you've gone and done in the past. You're good, kid. You've got talent, lots of promise. Too much talent to let it go to waste. You wanna take care of your momma?. Well, you're gonna work for me now. You do what I say, when I tell you to. She'll be taken care of," he turned to Tim's mother "you're movin' up in the world, sweetheart. I've got a new place all picked out for ya."

Tim's eyes darkened, flickering to his mother, but saw that she would be of no help to him. The not-so-subtle promise of finer things drew her like a moth to flame, assured and knowing self-destruction, yet without any hint of hesitation or thought.

"And she'll keep on getting nice things, so long as you do as I tell you," the man turned back to him "I'll make sure of it. The better you do, the better she'll have it. Capiche?."

He understood. This deal with the Devil had a downside. If he failed, even once, he'd be worse than dead, as would his mother. But he saw also that he truly had no choice. Refusal now would end his life more swiftly than failure later ever could. He'd just have to be sure he did not fail.

Tim's voice, when he spoke, was hollow.

"What would you have me do?."

* * *

_February 2__nd__, 02:00 AM_

_Wayne Tower_

Working for the man, Bryce Marko, wasn't easy. Marko expected a great many things of Tim, more than anyone else in his string of drug-addled prostitutes and pick-pockets. Tim was capable of so much more than most. He was strong, he was fast, he was smart. Given the right information and equipment, he could get into and out of places most people could only dream of.

Without the mask, he was a picture of pathetic innocence which aroused sympathy in most. With it, he was something to be feared. Though unable to actually match the reputation of Robin, he was well able to uphold it through intimidation.

Marko wasn't the sort of man who built an army. He simply made demands and waited for them to be met. He did not train Tim in anything, merely gave him the tools he asked for. Other than that, Tim was completely on his own.

Tim's base of operations was a room in an apartment building Marko basically owned. The one who in name owned it had fallen so deeply into Marko's debt that he would do anything Marko asked. And Marko asked that "the kid" be given a place to stay, no questions asked.

So long as he continued succeeding, Tim was provided with everything he needed to live in what amounted to comfort when compared with his previous accommodations. Marko knew better than to treat Tim too well, lest the boy get soft. But he knew also how to play his slaves, the key to their servitude being that they thought they were happy and didn't realize they were trapped until it was too late.

What he didn't know was that Tim already knew. Neither words nor faux kindness would secure his allegiance. He did this not for Marko, nor for himself, but for his mother, because she wished it to be so. She hadn't even bothered to come and visit him since he entered into the agreement, though she did call now and then when she wanted something.

Tim rather preferred it this way. His bruises had healed, and the dog bite was little more than a scar now, a painful reminder of the cost of mistakes. It was not the first of Tim's scars, nor was it likely to be the last. But it was, perhaps, the most relevant.

After all, he'd learned nothing from the cigarette burn just below his left elbow. The three neat scratch marks on the side of his neck spoke only of the need to avoid his mother when she was in a drugged or drunken rage, as did the scar across his left shoulder where a bottle had once shattered against him. The palm of his right hand bespoke of the need to watch for nail heads pushing their way up out of floor boards, a slash across his wrist reminded him to be careful with kitchen knives.

The dog bite served as a constant reminder that failure was simply not an option. Succeed, or die. There was nothing in between, nobody to catch him if he fell. No safety net, only the impartial hand of fate.

Wayne Tower seemed to glower at him from across the street, a looming and ominous figure rearing above the city like some kind of giant, looking down on everything around it as though in general disdain of all humanity. Robin did not want to go inside.

But there was an item in there that a man was paying Marko to get. And you didn't refuse Marko when he came with a "request". You did as he told you, the still forming bruises on Robin's left arm reminded him. Marko said he wanted something from inside Wayne Tower. Robin would get it for him.

He looked over the side of the rooftop upon which he stood. It was a disconcertingly long way down. No amount of snow on the ground would save him this time.

_You can do this,_ He told himself, _you've already done this. Just... not this high up._

He looked down again, steeling himself against it. Once started, he could not afford to look down. But now... now was the time to look at it, to recognize his fear, and to get a handle on it. Once in the air, it would be far too late. Robin looked across to Wayne Tower, which frowned at him like a disapproving parent, as though the building itself knew what he planned to do and didn't like it.

"Great. I'm getting attitude from a building," he hissed to himself.

There was nothing for it. He wasn't going to get any braver. Robin adjusted his stance and pulled out his grappling hook. This was a real one, supplied by Marko. It worked better than his home-made one had. It also had far greater range.

Robin didn't know it, but the second the hook hit the building, a silent alarm went right to Batman and Batgirl. Batman had expected this "new Robin" to eventually find his way to Wayne Tower. After all, the kid had been working his way to bigger things ever since the Westfield Robbery.

He appeared in the papers and news websites almost daily, though seldom in any position of import. He was a mild curiosity at best, but the public did eat up heroes-gone-rogue stories.

Nightwing also got the message, but he didn't come. He and Batman were actively avoiding one another. They hadn't spoken to each other in days. Nightwing knew Batman would get right on it, so resigned himself to dealing with the rest of the scum in the city.

Robin had gotten to the roof by the time Batman and Batgirl arrived. He sensed them before he saw them, Batgirl appearing out of the shadows in front of him, Batman making his presence known when Robin turned to escape from her.

Robin had no way of knowing that a simple explanation was all it would take to save him. He knew only that he was in deep trouble. He had expected this almost from the start, but he hadn't been looking forward to it. This was the end for him. It had to be.

"Just put down what you stole and give yourself up," Batgirl ordered reasonably, taking a step towards him "and you don't have to get hurt."

Robin's eyes flicked from Batman to Batgirl and back again. He edged away from them, but there wasn't really anywhere for him to go. Behind him was the edge of the roof, empty space. They were closing on him. There was nothing for him to do. Except jump.

Closing his eyes briefly, Robin mouthed a silent prayer. Then he dove backwards from the rooftop, plunging into free fall. With his free hand, he reached for his grappling hook, and shot blind towards the building across the street. Something came singing through the air and struck his arm and he dropped his cargo with a strangled yelp.

The hook caught and his plummet came to a violent halt. He swung into a dark alley, where one of many planned escape routes lay. He clutched his bleeding arm, knowing even now that he was not badly hurt, but that didn't make it sting any less.

The worst, he knew, was yet to come.

Batman and Batgirl pursued, but soon lost him. They had recovered the object however, a new invention built by one of the Wayne Enterprises brilliant scientists.

"Well, at least I kept this from falling into the wrong hands," Batgirl said, picking it up.

"Yes," Batman grunted, thinking, _but what about the boy?. Who will get him away from the wrong hands?. Surely he's not working alone. For this, he must have had help._

* * *

_05:00 AM_

Tim had spent most of the last three hours pacing around his room, trying to think of a way out of this. He had failed. That stung more than the mark left by the batarang. He'd escaped, yes, but he'd failed to achieve his objective. He knew the price of failure, all too well.

It was one of the few things his mother had taught him.

The phone rang. It was Marko.

"Did you succeed?," Marko's voice on the phone asked.

"I met with... difficulties," Tim replied hesitantly.

"Did you resolve them?."

"I'm... no. Batman and Batgirl-"

"You failed?."

"Yes... I'm sorry. I'll do better next time."

"I'm coming over."

The sound of Marko hanging up chilled Tim to the bone. The ominous words hung in the air. He knew to fear them, even without full knowledge of their implications.

A few minutes later, Marko knocked on the door. Unlike Tim's mother, Marko had absolute power. Fear begat instant obedience. Even knowing that punishment was to follow, Tim arose and opened the door.

* * *

_08:00 AM_

Marko had finally left, his anger at last spent. Tim was on the floor where he'd been dropped, lying like a broken doll, raw anguish in his every nerve. His eyes were closed, but he was neither asleep nor unconscious. After several minutes of silence, punctuated only by his ragged breathing, he dared to open his eyes and gaze at the pale yellow ceiling.

That contact with reality, so insignificant yet so profound, broke him. He rolled painfully onto his side and curled into the fetal position, body wracked with agonized sobs. He'd never cried as he did now, with guilt and shame as much as torment and misery.

Each convulsive sob brought new pain to him like a perverted gift, and each new pain served to lay him open, forcing him to relive every moment of torture he'd experienced. He was choking on it, drowning. He felt like he was dying, and wished that it were so.

He heard the door open, but closed his eyes to it. He did not want to know what was coming for him, or what was about to happen. He just wanted it to be over.

He felt a hand on the back of his neck, a beloved touch that was cold, a heart closed to him but still comforting in its familiar presence. His mother had finally come to visit.

"If only I'd had a daughter," her voice was heavy, sorrowful.

Tim tried to still his sobs, but found that he couldn't. There was a new tone in his mother's voice. She spoke in a pained way. He knew, even without looking, that Marko had visited himself upon her as well. But that was not the source of the pain in her voice.

"You mustn't fail him again. You can't."

A few minutes later, she left him alone with his shame and wounds, both physical and emotional.

He didn't get up off the floor. He simply lay there like a beaten dog, utterly defeated by life.

Tim wasn't stupid. He knew failure was inevitable. No one could succeed a hundred percent of the time. The scar which would be left by the batarang would confirm that. But he couldn't fail. He couldn't afford to. So Marko had trapped him in a way he couldn't have expected.

For hours he lay without moving, not even crying anymore because all the tears had run dry. He didn't feel hungry or thirsty, or even tired. Just slowly going numb, the pain settling inside to stay. Hurting without quite realizing it, his mind a cruel circle of thoughts, always ending up in desolation.

There was no way out. Not for him.


	5. Responsibility is Acceptance

_February 9__th__, 08:00 PM_

_Batcave_

Nightwing had grown very focused on the Robin sightings. His attention was bordering on obsessive. It bothered him that Batman showed so little interest in the faux Robin. Bugged him even more that it had been Batman and Batgirl who had encountered the little imp. It was Nightwing who'd done all the research, trying to find a pattern to the sightings, to locate a point of origin or way of predicting where he'd hit next. But he'd had no luck thus far.

The only predictable angle was, at least twice a week, Robin hit really big targets. He hadn't hit a residence since the Westfield Robbery. Why not?. He'd also been awfully quiet since the attempt to steal from Wayne Enterprises. Why was he lying low?. Waiting for things to cool off?. Or maybe he'd been hurt more than Batman or Batgirl had realized.

"He was so fast," Batgirl had said "I know I hit him, but I'm not sure where."

Had he lost his nerve?. That seemed unlikely. First time out (that Nightwing knew of), he'd nearly been caught, and Mrs. Westfield was sure one of her dogs had bitten him pretty badly. He'd left blood on the scene, and there might have been a trail to follow if it hadn't started snowing.

Batman was intimidating, but if a dog bite didn't even slow him down, a brief encounter with the Caped Crusader hardly seemed justification for going into hiding. It was clear the kid wasn't upset by changes in his plans. The unexpected happened, and he seemed well able to roll with it.

_Who trained you?,_ Nightwing asked the name printed on the news headline.

He'd tried using that as the key, tried to find someone who might own this kid in some way. Batman was right, this... this Dark Robin was not acting alone. Someone had to be giving him instructions, or at least access. Nightwing had compiled a list of the tools the kid was known to use from witness reports and security cameras. The arsenal was not so extensive and varied as Nightwing's own and a far cry from Batman's, but the kid had a lot of stuff you just didn't find lying around on the street.

Someone was paying for that stuff. And someone knew how to pick it. Not all grappling hooks were created equal, for example. Someone did the research. And someone paid for it all.

A rumble of thunder clawed its way down to the Batcave, causing Nightwing to jump. A little early for spring thunder storms, wasn't it?. Then again, it had been an abnormally warm couple of days. Still cold, but above freezing. Most of the snow and ice had melted. Spring might be coming early this year.

Still... the beginning of February?. Nightwing shook his head. The weather was such a strange thing, refusing to be controlled or predicted, even though there were hundreds of websites devoted to doing exactly that. But the best they could do was give a percentage. 80% chance of scattered thunderstorms. What the heck did that even mean?.

Nightwing decided not to think about that, and returned his attention to the project at hand.

But something carried over from one to the other.

_Percentages... percentages..._ in order to predict Dark Robin's next move, Nightwing had to try and think like him. One thing that had shown time and again was that the kid was cautious. What were the chances he was going to get caught?. There was always a chance, just like rain. Even when the websites said 0% chance, sometimes it rained. But you'd look stupid if you went out wearing galoshes and a yellow raincoat with that prediction.

_Okay, so he'll go for the easiest target. One nobody expects him to hit._

Nightwing took a look at the local banks and museums, to see if any of them were doing anything special. But he stopped before he was halfway down the list, realizing that it wasn't any of these. Where was the one place nobody would expect him to return to?. The one place he had failed miserably, and nearly been caught. Only a fool would go back there... or a genius.

_He'll go for Wayne Towers again._

Maybe there was another reason for Nightwing to think that, a reason he wasn't consciously aware of. Robin was never willing to let himself be defeated, even with the odds against him. Robin would try again until he succeeded, or died trying. That was how Nightwing had lived, and how Jason had died.

For the little bird, persistence past all reason was the key to victory. A relentless ignorance of the possibility of failure, refusal to admit that the odds were against him.

Nightwing didn't realize it, but somewhere along the line, this Dark Robin had come to impress him. Even though the kid was a straight up criminal, he was still possessed of Robin-like qualities.

Familiarity is the cause of contempt and, in its perversion, the source of all horror. Yet there is a mysterious line where familiarity becomes admiration and even friendship. The distance between love and hate is so short as to be virtually immeasurable. It is one of the unexplained mysteries of the universe that the most powerful and opposing responses should be so closely related.

Nightwing didn't realize it, but he was standing on the line between the two, all but ready to cross over.

* * *

_09:30 PM_

_Wayne Tower_

Of course, there was no guarantee that Dark Robin was going to show up tonight. But it wasn't like Nightwing had anything better to do. The stormy atmosphere had the casual criminals hiding in their holes, and the true villains of Gotham belonged to Batman and Batgirl. Nightwing was a visitor here, albeit a rather long-staying one. His home was Blüdhaven, and that was where his villains lived.

Lighting forged a jagged path across the sky, threatening to come down but not yet ready to make its power felt by the world below. The air was damp and electric at the same time, rain was beginning to fall, just barely water instead of ice.

Who in their right mind would be out in weather such as this?. Nightwing tried to convince himself to abandon his vigil. There was no way Dark Robin would show up with this storm brewing. Not if he had an ounce of sense. But instinct made Nightwing to remain where he was. He knew, somewhere deep inside, that Robin was coming. He was coming here, and he was coming tonight.

A little rain and thunder would not prevent him from finishing what he'd started.

And Nightwing would be here to finish him.

The hunter patiently lay in wait for his prey.

* * *

_11:00 PM_

Robin had known something was wrong even before he reached Wayne Tower. Some fearful sixth sense told him that danger lay ahead. The still healing wounds beneath his costume reminded him that there was even greater danger back at the apartment if he failed again.

Every sense screamed at him to turn back, to give it up at least for tonight. But he knew that he could not. Caught in a web of choices, most of which were not even his own, Robin's options were reduced from the limitless to virtually none at all.

His fears were confirmed when a sharp, metal objected winged through the air and embedded itself in the wall less than two inches from his face. It was a curious sort of thing, halfway between being a birdarang and a batarang. Robin knew who it belonged to and looked up sharply.

Lightning flashed, but did nothing to reveal his attacker. For a moment he was frozen by indecision. To stay was to face Nightwing, the vicious black bird of Blüdhaven. To flee was to fail, to face the wrath of both Marko and his own mother. Even so, there was only one choice available wherein he might yet survive the night.

_Run_.

* * *

When he at last turned to face Nightwing, Robin felt a savage fury welling up inside him.

_I only want to survive!. Is that so wrong?. Why can't you leave me alone!?._

When he finally spoke with and fought Nightwing, he used the venomous rage as fuel. The anger, born from fear and long suffering, burned hot and consumed him. He didn't even feel the cold rain sinking into his skin, nor did he notice when Nightwing succeeded time and again in actually hitting him.

Nightwing found himself holding back, unwilling to maim Robin. Compassion was not strong in Nightwing's character. He was noted for being especially violent in the realm of superheroes, though that reputation was from an earlier time. But he was aggressive, and not prone to empathizing with the enemy. Yet that's exactly what he found himself doing.

There came a point when he knocked Robin down, and there the boy stayed. But Nightwing couldn't finish it. He stood over his defeated opponent, panting from exertion, hesitating, confused. Nightwing was not a sentimental type, and he couldn't understand the things which were going on in his head.

He was infuriated to see this thief wearing the mask and cape of Robin, but there was a bizarre rightness to it that Nightwing could sense, was unable to deny. With trembling certainty, he realized that this wasn't a "fake" Robin. This _was_ Robin. Not the one he had been, nor the one he had known, but Robin nevertheless.

A pair of headlights shone down the alley. Nightwing looked in their direction, but it was just some late night driver heading home. When he looked back at the ground, Robin had gone.

Swift, silent, taking the chance Nightwing had given him.

_Why did I let him go?._

* * *

_February 10__th__, 12:02 AM_

_Batcave_

Nightwing was cold. He ached from it. But deeper still was the peculiar pain of confusion. The tearing at him which resulted from clinging to the past and trying to push away from the present, in the process denying the future could even exist. Where had his resolve gone?.

What about the anger he'd felt?. Nothing had changed. Nothing except him.

He shook himself like a wet dog, flinging droplets of icy water in all directions. The batcave was empty, deserted in favor of the streets. Batgirl was probably at home asleep, preparing for tomorrow's test at school no doubt. Batman was probably still on patrol.

It was just as well. Nightwing didn't feel like enduring another one of their uncomfortable silences or awkward conversations. He didn't need another reminder of his guilt.

He felt a sting below his right elbow and looked down. There was a slash across his arm, right through his costume. He knew Robin must have inflicted it, but he couldn't remember when that would have happened. The kid had been fighting with a bo, Nightwing remembered no knife.

_The kid's full of surprises,_ he thought absently, _I'll have to be more careful of him in future._

Was he really going to fight Robin again?. What would be the point?. So long as this internal conflict lived, he would be unable to finish the fight. There was no point in letting the kid go over and over, nor in beating him up without reason.

_0% chance of capture,_ Nightwing laughed inwardly at the thought, realizing that Robin had once again escaped against all odds, his only advantage being dogged persistence.

He'd never given up, even though he'd clearly been aware that he couldn't win the fight. He'd watched for his opportunity, and taken his chances. Risked his life and gotten away clean.

_I'm beginning to like this kid,_ Nightwing thought with a shock.

There was nothing more dangerous than identifying with the enemy.

* * *

Robin hadn't gone far. If Nightwing had looked, he probably could have found him. In truth, Robin was baffled by his escape. He was exhausted, he was hurting, he shouldn't have been able to get away. In the brief, but violent clash, Robin had felt Nightwing's strength and sureness, seen the devious mind at work. Nightwing wasn't stupid. He'd intentionally let Robin go.

The question was: why?. Why had Nightwing made the conscious choice to let Robin go?. It didn't make any kind of sense. However, that was not utmost in Robin's mind at the moment.

Right now, he was trying to gather the last remaining shreds of courage he possessed, to go home and face the consequences of his failure. He couldn't just stay out in the rain, hiding forever. He couldn't do that to his mother, she needed him to come back, to steal for her.

What was it Nightwing had said?. Everyone has a choice.

Even Robin -Tim- had a choice.

_I can't be this person anymore._

He couldn't escape. But he didn't have to go on being Robin. He'd heard the pain in Nightwing's voice, the hurt he'd caused to a perfect stranger by using the name of... what was it... his brother?. Tim ripped off his mask and threw it aside. The cape followed. He never should have used Robin's name.

That had been one of his choices. He knew now he'd made the wrong one. His decision had done harm to someone else. That was not the sort of person he wanted to be. Nor did he want to be the kind of person who ran and hid from his problems.

He took a deep, shaky breath. He would go home. He would face Marko. He would suffer the consequences of his actions. That was his choice. It was the only one he could live with. Or die with.

* * *

_05:00 AM_

_Drake Residence_

"Come," the voice of the man was not loud, nor did it betray thoughtless anger.

Threat came from its coldness, from the silky smoothness of it, suggestion of violence hidden beneath an almost sensual air. Tim did not hesitate to obey the command tone hidden within layers of falsehoods. Marko's control over him was complete. It was more than the man's skill at manipulation, at projecting undeniable authority. There was also years of having watched his mother bend to this man's twisted will, habit instilled in him by careful observation of his parent.

"Stand here," Marko pointed to a spot directly in front of him.

Tim came to a halt before him, carefully keeping his eyes locked on some point beyond Marko, not daring to look the man in the eye lest he incur more wrath than he already had. He was not fooled by the gentleness of Marko's voice, he could hear the undertones of carefully measured fury.

He was being played, just as his mother had always been. His awareness of it made his anguish all the worse. He knew this was an act, yet he felt himself crumbling before it, bending to the man's will even as he told himself that he would not, that knowing he was being bent would somehow prevent it from happening. But fear overrode his senses, destroying all attempts at subtle resistance.

The awareness of threat only increased the torment, providing no outlet for the fear nor any chance of escape. He had come, he would now stand. He had no other option, though he felt like he should.

"_Everyone has a choice."_ That was what Nightwing had said.

Circumstance belied the statement, showed it for the shallow lie that it truly was. An honest lie, meant as truth yet terrible in its deception. Had Nightwing meant it that way?. Was he so clever as that?.

Marko's face turned to a perverted sort of a smile. He enjoyed watching the kid squirm. More than he'd ever imagined he would. He'd never exerted this kind of power before. Not just over the body, but the soul as well. He could crush the kid with a word, destroy him with a touch. He'd always had to achieve his power by way of drugs and deception. But this boy saw him for what he was, and had never before tasted the poison his own mother lived on.

Even so. Marko's power was absolute.

He reached out, ran a finger lightly down the boy's bare arm, feeling the soft curve of muscle over bone, enjoying the exquisite obscenity of the action, loving the restrained trembling his touch brought.

Tim continued to look past him, did not flinch away though God knows he wanted to. He wanted to scream, to lash out, to hide, to somehow escape. Yet he stood and bore the hated touch. It was his penance for having failed. He must not balk, but accept the consequences of his actions.

"You know I can't simply ignore this," Marko purred "you've done poorly, and I can't let that slide. Not even once. It's for your own good that I do this."

Tim saw through the lie, yet some part of him believed it anyway.

The hand on his arm dropped and came to rest on Marko's belt buckle. Involuntarily, Tim's eyes flicked to watch the hand, then he determinedly looked away. You had to face the fear before it became reality. Just like when he'd swung from one building to the other. You could look down before you started. But not after that, or you were sure to fall.

The door slid open, admitting Tim's mother into the room. Quietly, she entered and closed the door behind her, leaned against it. Her presence was the greatest hurt. She would do nothing to stop this, he was certain. But he was wrong. Maybe it was because her supply of drugs was running low and her mind was clearer than usual. Maybe her guilt had built up enough that she had to do something in order to silence the conscience she refused to admit existed within her.

"Bryce, please don't," her voice was a low tremor, her eyes downcast.

Marko ignored her, speaking instead to Tim "kneel down."

Tim's eyes went to his mother against his will, even as he knelt down obediently. Some tiny part of him cried out to her, to she who bore him, who assumed responsibility for him by bringing him into the world. It was irrational to think she could, or would, help him. He knew that. She would have sold him in a heartbeat for drugs if she could.

He tore his eyes away from her, found himself looking up into the face of the man. He felt himself becoming smaller, weaker, the slightest breeze could blow him away. He wished it would.

_Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud._

Each beat of his own heart rang with a sense of finality, an end in itself even as it heralded his continuation through the eternity of the moment. Focusing, he could hear Marko's heartbeat. Rapid, wildly excited with anticipation. The silence of the room was so thick that even his mother's mouse quiet breathing seemed loud.

Suddenly, Tim's mother pushed off from the door, her momentum carrying her to Marko. She laid a thin hand on his shoulder, her eyes shimmering with tears. Tears, Tim realized, that were for him rather than for herself. It struck him at his core that she should cry for him.

"Bryce, please-" she never finished the sentence.

Marko whirled on her, shoved her backwards. She cried out, striking against the wall before tumbling to the floor. In taking this action, Marko's almost mystic hold over Tim was broken. The combination of his mother's sorrow and the man's savagery was too much for him to bear.

In a flash, he had retreated across the room to the tiled section of floor that designated the kitchen area. Marko, realizing his slip, whirled on Tim. His anger now had control of him, and thus he was unable to reestablish command over Tim.

"Get over here!," he shouted, advancing as he did so.

Tim backed away, backed until he bumped into the kitchen counter. There was a flash behind his eyes, as his mind snapped images before his consciousness. He knew that he must act. Blindly, he reached for the utensil drawer. He yanked it open as Marko lunged for him, ducked out of the way in the same motion it took to snatch a fork from the drawer. Marko's weight crashed against the open drawer and the fake wood splintered apart, sending silverware clattering to the floor.

He came at Tim a second time, a growl of inarticulate rage leaping ahead from his throat. Tim allowed him close, lashing out with his makeshift weapon. The prongs of the fork he'd grabbed slashed across Marko's face, just barely missing his eye. Marko yelped in surprise, a large fist swinging out and hitting Tim in the side. The blow sent him sprawling and knocked the wind out of him, but Tim did not drop his meager weapon.

He rolled, saw Marko lunging for him, lashed out with every muscle he had. His move carried the lower half of his body into the air, and his boot connected with the underside of Marko's chin. The man was flung backwards. Marko fell, the back of his skull cracking hard against the counter's edge.

Tim lay on his back on the floor, panting. Slowly, he convinced his fingers to let go of the fork. Tim's mother roused herself, scurried over to where Marko had fallen. She felt at his neck for a pulse, and her eyes suddenly clouded with a blind red rage.

"You killed him!," she shouted, her eyes blazing in her sudden anger.

"I didn't... I wasn't trying to-" she did not allow him to finish.

She snatched a plate off the counter and hurled it. Tim rolled out of the way, throwing his arms up to defend his face. The plate shattered against the floor, bits of it bounced off and cut into the back of Tim's neck. He didn't have time to absorb this before something else flew at him.

"Get the hell out!. Get out!," the screamed words sounded inhuman.

"Mother, please-"

"Get _out_!."

Tim scrambled to obey, his mind and body numb with shock, unable to process what had happened already, or what was happening now. He fumbled with the doorknob; ducked as another plate came his way, managed to yank the door open and at last fled, his mother's angry shouts echoing in his ears.

Even then, in his state of shock, he knew what he had to do. Where he had to go.

* * *

_Gotham City Police Department_

Things were usually quiet early in the morning, especially this time of the week. The officer at the desk out front was half-asleep from boredom when the ragged looking young boy came crashing in, looking around with wild eyes then announcing that he'd killed a man before falling to the floor and floundering around like a beached whale, moaning and repeated "I killed him" along with an apartment address.

It took three men twenty minutes to get him calmed down enough to place in a temporary holding cell. They couldn't get anything out of him other than that which he had already said. His thin body was wracked with violent shudders, and he wretched a few times before they got him settled.

One guy suggested the kid might be on drugs, but the signs just weren't there. They did call for a doctor to come take a look at the kid, as well as dispatching officers to the apartment the boy had indicated.

They found a dead man in the kitchen, killed by a blow to the skull. The officers managed to wrest scant information from the neighbors. Oh yes, they knew who lived there. Timothy. Yes, they he was an alright sort of kid, quiet and minded his own business. Oh no, his mother didn't live with him, she only came to visit. What was her name?. None of them knew. Her last name might be Drake. After all, that was Timothy's last name.

Bryce Marko's ID was on his person. When residents were asked about him, every one of them clammed up, clearly out of a mixture of fear and disgust.

Tim meanwhile, had fallen utterly silent.


	6. The Unwanted

Evidence supported the theory that Tim had killed Marko in self-defense, though he didn't say one way or the other. In fact, Tim didn't say anything at all. He just sat on the bed of his cell, knees drawn up and arms wrapped around them, staring blankly at the wall opposite him.

"From the doctor's report and my own observations, it's clear he's a very abused child," the counselor had said, before shaking her head "very probably sexually. But I can't get through to him. He just ignores me. I don't know what you're going to do with him."

That was the question of the hour. They couldn't hold him longer than forty-eight hours without any evidence that he'd actually done something wrong. And evidence suggested that Marko had it coming, regardless of what he'd been doing at the time of his death. If Tim had really meant to kill him, why start out with a fork?. Why go for the eyes, other than to try and disable his adversary without killing?.

The truly startling thing was the notion that this boy could muster enough force to push Marko back against the counter hard enough to crack his skull and break his neck. It was possible, but not probable. It seemed to Commissioner Gordon, if nobody else, that someone else must have had a hand in it. Tim had to be covering for someone, perhaps a relative, the mother they couldn't find or maybe her boyfriend? (assuming she had one). But nobody could find her.

Truth was, they simply didn't know enough about Tim to figure out what to do with him. They couldn't just toss him into the system, they'd never get him back out if that proved necessary. But they had no way of finding the mother, nor any idea about next of kin.

That is until one officer hit on a brilliant notion.

"Morna Westfield was married to a guy name Drake once," he said "she had a daughter. What are the chances this boy is her grandson?."

* * *

_February 12__th__, 08:00 AM_

"I'm so glad you're coming with me, Bruce. I'm so flustered. I can't believe that I have a grandchild. I had no idea. I haven't heard from my daughter in years. She and I never got along, you see." Morna hadn't stopped gushing since Bruce had picked her up.

The car pulled up in front of the Gotham PD building, and the two of them got out. Morna continued to talk animatedly, ignoring the cameras and microphones suddenly jammed into her face by the press. A handful of policemen helped push the throng out of the way to allow the two into the building.

Once safely inside the walls, Bruce breathed a sigh of relief. The press wanted to know about him and Morna, about Morna's daughter, about the grandchild, about whether or not he was a murderer. Most of all, they wanted a sensational story.

"You shouldn't expect much of him," Commissioner Gordon informed Morna "he's been through quite a lot, poor kid."

"Has he said anything about why he did what he did, how it happened?," Bruce asked.

"Afraid not. Fact is, he hasn't said a word since he found his way to us."

"He found you?," Bruce filed that curious bit of information away.

He and Commissioner Gordon waited outside the room where Tim was, allowing Morna to have a moment with the boy. Gordon had already done his best to try and explain what was happening to Tim. But he wasn't sure the boy understood any of it, or cared.

After a few minutes, Gordon opened the door. He and Bruce went in.

Tim was sitting at a chair, elbows on the table in front of him. Morna sat across from him, clutching her purse in her lap. She had been talking, but suddenly stopped to see who was at the door.

Tim had noticed the new arrivals before she had, Bruce noticed. The boy's dark eyes settled on him, the cool gaze behind them was steady and haunting. Bruce was uncomfortably reminded of other times when he'd seen those eyes. Both hating and fearing everyone around them, seeing demons in every shadow, lost in a private Hell no one could access.

Bruce steeled himself against those accusing eyes. He'd had enough. First Dick, then Jason, he'd done his part for orphaned youngsters. The last thing he needed was to create another Robin. He couldn't go through that again. It was one thing for people you love to die, but people you put in danger, who you trained to go into dangerous situations instead of run like a sensible person... that was a whole other ball game. Besides, this boy had Morna.

Bruce's eyes turned to the severe looking woman. Morna. Small consolation for a troubled youth.

"I have a nice room all set up for you," Morna said, resuming her one sided conversation "it's done in greens and yellows, very lovely. I have a wonderful butler who serves the most enchanting meals," a flicker of interest at that, gone in an instant "wouldn't you like to come and live with me?."

The dark eyes turned from Bruce, settled coldly on Morna. Beneath the unchanging expression, the boy's eyes betrayed a cacophony of thoughts and feelings. Neither Morna nor Gordon seemed certain the boy heard and understood. Bruce couldn't miss it.

The counselor, who had already been in the room seated next to Tim, spoke gently.

"He'll talk when he's ready. Right, Timothy?," her tone was hopeful, but Tim was unresponsive.

_When he's ready?,_ Bruce thought, _he's talking now. He's practically shouting. Can't you see that?._

But nobody else in the room could. The stillness of his tongue rendered them deaf to his cries. Those eyes were not dark in color, but in content. He spoke volumes with every look, every flicker behind those windows into his very soul. But it seemed as though only Bruce could hear him. Everyone else saw what they believed was there, missing entirely the very real boy and instead seeing only what had been done to him, as well as what he had done.

His eyes turned to Bruce, seeking a way out, looking for escape from the private Hell he was enduring.

_I'm afraid, _he said_._

But nobody heard him. They thought they did. They expressed sympathy, showed kindness and tenderness, but it was all just to make themselves feel better. Treating him as an abused child, a bit of a broken doll, molding him into their concept of what that looked like and, in the process, destroying him.

_I am afraid._

Bruce tried to ignore the silent plea. He intentionally looked away, unconsciously his hands started to move. He felt a wash of horror come from that place across the room and looked, saw that Tim's eyes were warily following his hands. Bruce put his hands in his pockets, and Tim relaxed visibly.

The conversation had gone on around them, but neither Bruce nor Tim heard what was said.

"Do you think I might have a word with him?," Bruce found himself asking.

"Oh, I don't think that's a very good-," the counselor was interrupted by Morna.

"I think that sounds wonderful," she chirped happily "You've dealt with troubled boys before. Perhaps you can get through to him."

Bruce and Tim cast glances at her, both knew the underlying reason for her enthusiasm. What surprised Bruce was that Tim's awareness of Morna's infatuation was equal to his own. Observant one, that boy.

Bruce shook his head, thrusting such thoughts to the back of his mind. He could not let himself get involved. It wouldn't be fair to himself, to Dick, to Alfred, or even to this boy. Only harm could come of bringing the boy into their lives.

"Very well," the counselor sighed, then put a hand on Tim's shoulder "we'll be right outside the door."

Physically, Tim gave no sign that he heard her voice or felt her touch. But his eyes told all. He recoiled from her comfort, more unsettled by it than perhaps anything else around him.

When it was just the two of them, Bruce stepped forward and took a chair across the table from Tim. His mind returned to scenes just like this one, right out of the past. With Jason, with Dick. And, dimly, even his own time as the frightened boy who'd lost everything he held most dear.

Tim's eyes searched his, seeking solace in this cold place, seeing a kindred spirit in Bruce's blue gaze. The silence between them was not a hollow one. Within it, they spoke on levels most people never dared to. Not through any special powers. There was no magic, no telepathy, no mystic empathy. Just silence, each letting himself become aware of the other, without having to try and frame his thoughts into complex and meaningless words.

It was Bruce who drew away. He had to, or else fall into the same emotional trap which had ended Jason's life. He could not build a bridge to this boy. He simply could not.

"Morna Westfield is a nice lady," he said at last "I'm sure she'll take good care of you."

"No," Tim's voice was soft, quiet, but in no way hesitant "she's not."

"What do you mean?."

"She's not nice. And she's no lady," Tim explained, staring hard at the metal surface of the table "she doesn't want me," he looked up at Bruce suddenly "and neither do you."

_How could he know what I was thinking?. That I might even be in a position to take him in, if I wanted to?. How could he know that?._ Bruce's mind reeled with the implications, but he forced them back, brutally dismissing them one and all.

It didn't matter whether he wanted this boy or not. The boy was not his to want.

Bruce realized suddenly that he was just like the others. He just wanted to make himself feel better. He didn't want to be inconvenienced, didn't really want to help. He only wanted to stop his heart from going out to yet another boy whom he would only end up destroying.

And he was upset now because Tim had seen right through him, and called him out on it.

Bruce didn't like feeling transparent, so he got up and went to the door. He didn't say anything else to Tim. The boy watched him go, knowing full well that he was permitting his only chance of escape to walk through the door and leave him behind.

* * *

_February 19__th_

It was still Hell, but now it was a different kind. This Hell was composed of extensive hallways cloaked in fine drapes, the devil clothed him in expensive gifts and Cerberus, the guardian at the gate, came in the form of a white Saluki.

Etilka, the Saluki, had free run of the house. Tim did not remember her from his previous "visit", but he did recall the dobermans which lived outside. He would do well to remain indoors after dark, and to never venture near the kennels.

Etilka, however, seemed to know him. Tall, slender, a creature of undeniable elegance, she was nevertheless a beast to be feared. The Saluki, Morna had explained, had been a companion of royalty since Biblical times, but it was also a fierce hunter and loyal protector. One should not be fooled by its subtle grace and frail appearance, there was power behind that piercing gaze.

Etilka hated him, but she was a more of a lady than her mistress. She stood aloof, actively ignoring Tim in almost feline fashion. However, he quickly learned never to enter the dining area before Etilka had eaten, nor to go through a door ahead of her. The long, narrow muzzle housed cruel fangs and crushing jaws. Etilka's favorite part of Tim was the meat of his hand, which her sight hound eyes could identify even inside a pocket, and her precise bite never missed.

She saw through him, sensed his unease, his fear, the deception hovering just behind his eyes. She was not a bad dog, she was merely loyal to her mistress, who perhaps did not deserve such devotion and was most definitely completely unaware of it.

Morna put few demands on Tim, asking only that he go to school, get good grades and never bring any girls or rambunctious teenagers home with him. Her schedule was too full to bother him with more restrictions. Morna was seldom home.

"Home is where you go to die," she explained, "It is a place of quiet and dignity, which must be preserved at all costs. That is why I have a Saluki, for the sight hound is granted a certain nobility which is lost to the scent hound. Never forget that. While you live under my roof, you are an ambassador of my house. You must conduct yourself with dignity, and regality, display to the public only that which you want them to know, and they will be forced to think highly of you."

_Lie to them, so that they might never see who you are,_ Tim's mind had translated, _all of us as actors in a never-ending play, everyone too afraid to let anyone see the human being, the vulnerable soul, that lies just beneath the surface. Yes, Lady Westfield, I understand you perfectly._

He always thought of Morna as Lady Westfield. She was never Morna to him, and certainly not Grandmother. Even knowing their genetic relation to each other did nothing to close the wide gap between them. They were worlds apart, even though Morna should have understood him better than anyone. She had begun her life in poverty, and had not worked her way up, but married into wealth.

Tim too had started out in the gutter, and suddenly found himself planted in a mansion. They had much in common, but Tim's awkwardness in this new life only repulsed Morna, perhaps because he reminded her too much of herself when she was young.

She wanted him to immediately fit in, and not to up-heave the life she had built for herself. She attended charities, visited friends, made speeches and always, always, always sought out more money. She was more interested in Bruce Wayne, a man who might have been happier had she dropped off the face of the Earth entirely, than she was in her own grandson.

Tim had never been to school in his life. Today was his first day. He hadn't slept well the night before, nor even the night before that. Having the most comfortable bed he could imagine to sleep on, knowing that no one would enter his room in the dead of night, that he wouldn't hear yelling in the other room, that nothing would happen to him here, it didn't help at all. The second he closed his eyes, memories assaulted him, each more painful than the last.

He didn't tell Morna. He couldn't. She would not understand, he knew. Her solution would be to give him sleeping pills, sedatives to keep him in check instead of dealing with the problem. Denying there was a problem wouldn't make it go away.

Even now, Tim was struggling to fully absorb the shock of what he'd done, and how drastically his life had changed... was _still_ changing.

Gotham High was an intimidating place. It wasn't just another high school. They had uniforms, it was expensive. Privileged kids went to this place. While it wasn't the most expensive school known to man or anything like that, it was still a pretty far cry from old textbooks fished out of garbage cans.

The first thing that happened to Tim was that he was identified as the new kid. A hulk of a teenager came lumbering over, carefully positioning himself to try and maneuver Tim into bumping into him. But Tim was fast, saw the trap and dodged it, so narrowly that nobody but he and the other boy knew it.

"Watch it, new kid!," slurred the Sophomore

"Sorry," Tim muttered. He didn't want trouble, he just wanted to get through the day.

The other boy was much bigger than he was, but that didn't scare him. If he could handle a fully grown man, a hefty teen was hardly worth thinking about. The Sophomore grabbed him by the shoulder and swung him around so that they were facing each other.

"Let me go," Tim growled, feeling more angry than scared.

"I'll let you go when I'm good and ready. Don't you know who I am?."

Tim stared at him. How was he supposed to know who this kid was?. He was new, he didn't know _anybody_. This meat-head knew that, so why was he giving Tim a hard time about it?.

"Darren!," a red haired girl interposed herself between them, nudging Tim backward with her shoulder while planting a disapproving finger in the middle of the other boy's chest "why don't you pick on someone your own IQ. M'kay?. Get lost."

Darren's eyes narrowed, but evidently he knew better than to mess with this girl, whoever she was. He turned and stalked off, pushing a smaller kid to the ground as he went.

The girl turned to Tim, fire still in her eyes. A second later it was gone and she smiled. She was a few years older than Tim, and definitely taller. Self-confidence shone brightly in her blue eyes.

"Hi. I'm Barbara Gordon," she stuck out her hand and Tim shook it almost warily.

"Tim," his voice squeaked a little, so he cleared his throat "Tim Drake."

"Don't mind Darren," Barbara said "I think he hates everyone. Come on, I'll help you find your first class," she led off, but Tim hesitated to follow her.

There was something... something... _dangerous_ about her. He didn't understand what it was.

* * *

Tim figured it out during his free period. He was hanging out on the bleachers in the indoor gym. PE was going on below, Barbara was one among many students. He watched her move, swift, with catlike grace, more agile than she was letting on... and he suddenly knew. There was no doubt about it.

Barbara Gordon was Batgirl.


	7. A Special Room in Hell

_07:30 PM_

_Batcave_

"I couldn't believe he was there!," Batgirl was pacing around the cave like a caged tiger "I mean, why would you send him to school so soon after everything he's been through!."

"I'm sure Mrs. Westfield knows what she's doing," Batman replied indifferently, not looking up from what he was doing at the computer.

"You didn't see him. He was like... like a little frightened bunny in a den of wolves. Hungry wolves!," She stressed the word _hungry_ "the school bully nearly had him for breakfast."

Batman grunted, but didn't actually answer. Nightwing was across the room, leaning on a display case, watching the exchange with an unreadable expression. Batman was steadfastly ignoring him, Batgirl was pretending not to notice the rift between them.

"Dick, you remember your first day of school after...," Batgirl trailed off "I'm sorry, I didn't mean-"

"I remember," Nightwing interrupted "I remember being angry, and scared."

"You also survived, as I recall," Batman growled "the Drake boy will adjust, given time."

"That's my point: nobody's giving him time. I overheard one of the teachers giving him a lecture for being late to class. I bet that kid's never been inside a school before. It wasn't called for, it was unfair."

"So is life," Batman told her "what's your point?."

Batgirl's eyes narrowed as she finally realized that Batman was trying to shut down this line of conversation but good. What she didn't know was why. She turned to Nightwing, who just shrugged. Batgirl unleashed a hiss of frustration, but finally dropped it.

She didn't know it, but her outrage had ignited a spark of interest in Nightwing. Perhaps it was due in part to Batman's casual dismissiveness of the issue. Maybe it was because there was something familiar in the story. A ghostly link to the brother Nightwing had so recently lost.

* * *

_Westfield Manor_

Tim lay on his bed staring at the ceiling, his mind processing the day's events, not the least of which was his new awareness of Batgirl's secret identity. His brain had turned over the idea that Commissioner Gordon might be Batman, but dismissed it as highly unlikely.

When he came here, Tim had only carried a small duffel with him. Inside it was everything he needed to become Robin. He'd even retrieved the mask he'd cast aside, unable to part with it as completely as he'd wanted. He toyed with the idea of reinventing himself, becoming the Robin which should exist, rather than the one he had created.

But there was no way he could sneak out of the house after dark. Even now, he could hear Etilka snuffling outside his door, reassuring herself that the prisoner was in his cell. Outside, the dobermans were likely trotting around, supposedly keeping intruders out.

But Tim knew better. They'd been set on him once, and they were eager to catch him, especially the one who'd managed to bite him. They had not forgotten the scent, or their failure. They would have liked to use him as their own personal chew toy. One was doubtless lurking beneath his window, breath frosting in the cold night air, glowing eyes trained upwards, knowing where the prey was and patiently waiting for him to come to it.

Besides, what sort of Robin could he be anyway?. It wasn't like Gotham didn't have enough heroes. Batman and Batgirl, plus Nightwing. Wasn't that plenty enough for one city?.

But there was one thing he _could_ do. He could keep Batgirl's secret, not even letting on to her that he knew. It was all he could do. It wasn't much, considering what he'd done, but it would have to do.

He recalled to mind the pain in Nightwing's voice that night they had fought. He'd cut the dark hero deeply, without even realizing it. He'd done what everyone around him always had, taken what he wanted and twisted it for his own purposes. He'd abused the mask, the name, the essence of what Robin stood for, just as his mother and Marko had abused him. He was fully as guilty as they were.

He wished there was a way he could atone for it, but he couldn't see how.

He rolled onto his side and stared at the heavy pale yellow drapes covering the window. With the light off, they looked almost white, which would have been a better color. Outside his door, Etilka growled softly, chastising him for moving and for locking her out, hiding just beyond her reach.

Tim rolled his eyes at sound of the dog's claws scratching at the door. It was an alarming sound, straight from a horror film, the soft noise of the monster discovering how to open doors. But Tim knew it was just that, nothing more. Just a sound in the night, a threat rendered empty by the lock on the door.

The imagination is a dangerous thing. While it can serve you well, it is all too willing to betray you, to bring your worst fears to life. Tim knew that, and pretended to himself that a soft chill didn't run up his spine at the ominous scratching; the dog's unspoken threat delivered by his imagination in living color.

She would still be there in the morning. He'd better wear gloves. She would still be able to pinch, but the damage would be far less than if he didn't wear gloves. He always wore gloves these days. When asked by Morna about it, he claimed it was because his hands got cold.

Etilka was the queen of the house, Morna would hear no sour words about her beautiful, perfect dog.

Being bitten by a dog was not a great way to start the day, especially when you were trying to shake off the last rotting bits of nightmares born of memory. But Tim had resigned himself to it, realizing in his way that there was still no escape. Not for him. Never for him.

* * *

_February 20__th_

Etilka had gotten her shot in, but had almost at once let go, realizing that it was pointless to bite a gloved hand. She'd followed Tim down to the kitchen, her claws clicking on the wood floor, a low grumbling in her throat. Tim ignored her.

He wasn't sure he'd slept at all last night, but was glad it was early. Morna might like her butler, but he didn't. Rather than decline a proffered meal and make his own, he preferred to say "I've already eaten" when asked if he would like something to eat. It was better that way, the butler didn't have to do any work and no food went to waste.

The fridge was full of things which had to be fixed, to be cooked. Tim was accustomed to things which came out of cheap plastic wrap. The closest he could find here was sliced deli meat, and that made a poor breakfast. Rummaging in the cupboard, Tim found a loaf of bread. A slice of toast would have to do. He wondered what kind of weird person kept bread in a cupboard instead of on the counter or in the pantry. Best to keep questions like that to himself.

The Saluki watched him with open suspicion, and he knew he'd have to go back to his room when the toast was ready. One thing you did _not_ do in Etilka's presence was eat.

* * *

Tim decided to walk to school. He'd get there early, sit on a picnic table until the bell rang. He didn't care that it was cold. Anything to get out of the house and away from the damned dogs. The dobermans raised a ruckus when he exited the house, but they'd already been locked up for the day.

Etilka hung back, then lunged as Tim opened the door. He had to scurry out and slam the door. Etilka wasn't allowed out without her leash, but she routinely tried to escape. Tim was careful to shut the door all the way, but he forgot to lock it. Where he'd come from, there was no point in locking the door.

The streets were quiet and empty. There had been snow the night before, the roads hadn't yet been shoveled. The sky was still dark, the air was crisp. The only sound was Tim's breathing and his boots crunching into the snow, along with the rustle of his backpack and jacket as he moved.

He'd been walking about ten minutes when he sensed it. The feeling of eyes on him, that prickle at the back of his neck, telling him someone was following. His mind flashed back to those nights as Robin when he'd almost been caught. First by the dobermans, then by Batman and Batgirl, finally by Nightwing. Actually, Nightwing had caught him. And let him go. A fact which still puzzled him.

There was a menace behind the presence, of animalistic intensity. Tim forced himself not to walk faster, or look over his shoulder, or indicate in any way that he knew he was being followed.

He reached the school and crossed to where a number of tables, bolted to the concrete, stood like unattractive statues. He tossed his backpack onto a bench and swung up to sit on a table top. He didn't see anyone in the direction from which he'd come, but he knew they were there. Somehow, he knew.

* * *

Darren and his friends were among the first to arrive, strangely enough. They started to come towards him, perhaps to pick up where they'd left off the day before. Tim was so busy watching them that he didn't notice the other boy until he sat down next to him. Darren took one look at the newcomer and drifted off, pretending he'd been planning to do that all along.

Tim turned to the stranger, who was eating a pop-tart with an absurdly smug expression on his face.

"Who are you?," Tim asked, silently wondering, _and why are they afraid of you?._

"Dick Grayson," came the reply "I used to go to school here."

Somehow, the second part of the answer seemed to be a response to the unasked question.

"Used to?," Tim queried "You don't anymore?."

"Nah. I'm what you'd call a high school dropout," his tone had grown dark, but now it brightened again "Of sorts. I'm taking online courses now. I'll have myself a diploma by summer. And without all the hassle of interacting with assholes like Darren."

"And yet you come to school to eat breakfast," Tim commented, eying the pop-tart.

"I do as I please," Dick corrected him.

"I can see that. So why sit here?. There are plenty of empty tables, it being freezing and all."

"You're sitting here too, and it's not like you have to be doing that," Dick countered.

Tim couldn't help but smile. He shook his head and rolled his eyes, but couldn't hide his amusement. Dick was right, Tim didn't have to be sitting here. He could have arrived with all the other students, gotten here by bus. Perhaps even have avoided any potential trouble with Darren.

"I don't like being at home," Tim admitted, his smile disappearing.

Dick's eyes narrowed as he latched onto that bit of information. Tim wasn't looking at him at the time and, when he turned back, Dick had carefully schooled his look to appear as though nothing had happened. This boy was just someone he'd met by chance, or at least Tim was to believe that.

"You have something against space heaters?," Dick feigned a guess.

"No. It's Lady Westfield's dog. It hates me," Tim unconsciously looked at the teeth marks in the glove on his left hand.

_Straight from one room of Hell into another, eh, Tim?,_ Dick thought.

"Grayson... Grayson... you're-"

"The ward of Bruce Wayne, yeah."

"Oh. Actually, I was thinking you were a trapeze artist in the circus, but okay, that too," Tim said.

"That was, like...," _a lifetime ago_ "nine years ago. What were you, two?."

"I was little," Tim admitted, but there was fire in his eyes as he spoke "it was one of the times my mother tried to be an actual parent. Took me to the circus. Like a trapeze act and some cotton candy could make everything...," _why am I telling him this?. He's a complete stranger._

"I hear that," Dick said, roughly pushing the silence out from between them "people think they can kiss it and make it better. But the wound doesn't heal without some real effort being put into it, some actual care."

"Yeah," Tim agreed quietly.

"Hey... you're that kid from the news. Drake..., right?,"

Tim saw that Dick wasn't guessing, he already knew. He was just being polite, trying to keep Tim from pegging him for a stalker just because he frequented news sites.

"Tim. And yes, I did kill that guy."

"No question about that. I do have one other though: why a fork?. Of all the things you could have grabbed: knife, cleaver, scissors... cookie jar... a fork is what you used."

"I didn't know that detail made it into the news," Tim commented dryly.

"Ah, you don't want to tell me. That's cool, totally fine."

"It's the first thing I could get my hands on," Tim said hotly "if it'd been a spoon, I would've hit him with it. Happy now?."

"Touchy subject. I get it," Dick decided to back off.

"It's okay. I guess I probably touched a nerve earlier. Mentioning the circus and all...,"

Before Dick could answer, the bell rang. Tim sprang up, grabbing his backpack and dashing inside. Dick continued to sit on the table, a thoughtful look in his eyes. He'd been surprised by how natural, how easy, it had been to talk to the kid. Almost like they'd known each other their whole lives.

Dick didn't know it, but he was the first person to really care about Tim. Even Barbara's response to the boy's situation was purely out of disgust at what was being done, not who it was being done to. Dick had connected immediately, and deeply, with who Tim was.

Almost like Tim was his brother.

Perhaps, if Dick had realized what had happened to him, he might have fought it, for the same reason Bruce had. The loss of Jason was too recently, too keenly, felt to allow someone else to enter that space previously occupied. But Dick didn't realize the source of his feelings or thoughts.

He hadn't recognized Robin behind Tim's eyes.

* * *

Tim was mildly alarmed when he got home to find that Etilka was galloping around the yard. The sleek, long-limbed creature fairly flew over the partially melted snow, the silken fur of her tail and ears floating along with her, making her seem like a greyhound-esque apparition.

The dark eyes spotted him, the muzzle turned fluidly in his direction and the rest of the body arced to follow. Tim slipped through the gate and shut it behind him before she reached him. The dog swept past, generating her own storm of wind as she shot by mere inches ahead of Tim, her eyes turning in their sockets to glare at him, promising that she wouldn't miss next time.

The thing about sight hounds, and really any dog built especially for speed, they can't change direction easily once they really get going. Etilka was bound to miss because her own momentum forced her to carry on in a mostly straight line, it took supreme effort for her to angle back towards Tim.

By that point, he was near the porch, and hopped onto the bottom step to avoid her. Even so, the white teeth flashed, and there was a terrible ripping sound as they snagged a portion of his backpack. Fury was evident in the dog's eyes. She felt she was being taunted, that Tim was ignoring her warnings, her commands for him to leave her home and territory at once.

Tim stood on the porch, gazing at the front door. He'd left it unlocked, and the handle was such that a dog could open if it wanted to. That was how Etilka had come to be outside. Morna must have noticed the front door was ajar when she left and shut it, unaware that her precious Saluki was outdoors.

Tim opened the door and stood aside as had become his habit, knowing Etilka wouldn't appreciate his going in before her. But Etilka wasn't interested in going inside. She'd swung around for another pass, but she was running out of breath by now, and slowing down.

Seeing that the dog would go for him and not the door, Tim made a risky move. He stepped inside the house, willing the dog to follow him. She did. Sixty pounds of pure muscle slammed into Tim's right hip and he was thrown down on his back. Before he'd hit the floor, he'd kicked out with one foot, shutting the door behind the dog. Victory was his today, and the dog knew it.

The dog whirled to face Tim, who lay flat on his back, head tilted back so he could see her. For an instant, he was well and truly afraid of Etilka. If she had never been given the perfect chance to go for his throat before, she had it now, and she was a beast bred for the hunt and the kill, not designed to be the pampered pet Morna Westfield always thought she should be.

Etilka lowered her head, skin along her narrow muzzle rippling back hideously to show her fangs, tension in every line of her body. She advanced a step. But that was all. Abruptly, she lifted her head and turned as though hearing something over her shoulder. She padded off to investigate the imaginary sound and Tim breathed a sigh of relief.

Recognition of Tim's helplessness was what separated Etilka from the truly vicious animal. She saw him lying defenseless before her and was satisfied. A vicious dog would have taken the opportunity to end it then and there, to get rid of the thing which irked them. By the laws of nature which govern the dog, Etilka had every provocation, and every right to finish the boy off.

That she did not denotes a strength of character seldom present in human beings.


	8. Savage Nobility

_February 22__nd__, 09:30_

_Batcave_

"We have a problem," Batman stressed the _we_.

He was seated in front of the computer, and was addressing Nightwing, who had just come in from a casual hunt for criminals in one of the trashier parts of town. Nightwing must have been startled by the announcement directed at himself, but he didn't betray it by his coolly toned question.

"We do?."

He ambled over to the computer and leaned against the desk, looking sidelong at the monitor, feigning a certain detachment, an imperfect mimicry of Batman's aloofness.

"We do," Batman said "Six foot six and about three hundred pounds of it."

Nightwing raised an eyebrow in place of a comment. The measurements made little impression on him, though his brain immediately rattled off a list of possible connections, running through possibilities like a computer database.

"It seems an old adversary has come back," Batman said, indicating the screen.

Nightwing turned slightly to look at it, a news article with the headline "Is It Black Death or a Copycat Killer?". The name settled into Nightwing's brain like a cold slug, an evil smelling thing that you couldn't avoid. A series of images flashed through Nightwing's mind, and he felt anger well up in him. Unconsciously, he closed his hands into fists and grit his teeth.

Black Death. He remembered that name. A huge man with an insatiable appetite for killing. He didn't seem to select particular victims so much as just kill whoever was in his path. He had no preferred weapon, as content to use his bare hands as a knife, his one predictable act being to paint his name in his victim's blood on the ground or wall nearby.

Black Death's real name was Harry Thompson. Roughly two years ago, he'd come to Gotham and set off on a killing spree. Batman and Nightwing together had driven him away, whereupon he'd set up shop in Blüdhaven. A fight with him had nearly cost Nightwing his life, but Black Death was arrested by Blüdhaven PD as a result, only to escape a short time later.

Both Batman and Nightwing had kept an eye out for him ever since, but he'd gone to ground. He was a killer without conscience, a powerful bull of a man, but he preferred easy hunts. He didn't like cities with superheroes in them. Too much effort. He'd been moving around regularly, a kill here and there, traipsing across the US like some deranged walkabout.

"The most recent killing prior to the one in Gotham Park last night was two months ago," Batman said, watching Nightwing's reactions carefully.

Nightwing had developed a special loathing for this particular character, which went beyond disgust at the things the man did to people. There was something deeper there, something Batman had too much respect for Nightwing to ask about.

"I should have killed him when I had the chance," Nightwing growled.

"The question," Batman went on, ignoring Nightwing's comment "is why now?. Why resurface now?. And why Gotham, of all places?. Unless he's been living under a rock, he has to know we're still here. I thought he'd learned his lesson about vigilantes back in Blüdhaven."

"I guess he didn't get the message," Nightwing spat "maybe he's a slow learner."

"Maybe who's a slow learner?," Batgirl had just arrived, newly returned from a two day mission with several members of the Team.

"Black Death," Batman grunted.

As daughter of the police commissioner, Batgirl knew the name. Her eyes narrowed as she recalled the gruesome news headlines from two years ago. Then she looked from Batman to Nightwing. She'd sort of known they must have tangled directly with the monster, but she'd never thought about it.

She knew Nightwing very well. The tightness at his jawline, hardness in his eyes, tension running through his shoulders... he had some personal reason for despising Black Death. Batgirl knew better than to ask about it, at least right now. The rest of the Team hadn't seen Nightwing's dark side, even she had only seen glimpses of it. She would do well not to push any of his buttons until he calmed down.

_If_ he calmed down.

* * *

_February 23__rd_

Arriving at school early, Tim wasn't surprised to find Dick waiting for him, lounging on a bench as though oblivious of the rest of the world. And appearing absolutely comfortable in spite of the cold. Dick was always hanging around the school in the mornings, and gone by afternoon. Tim wasn't sure why.

"You look worried," Dick commented when Tim sat down next to him "what's up?."

"Lady Westfield has a date coming over this evening," Tim replied "she says I should keep an eye on the demon dog, make sure we both stay out of the way."

Dick had gathered that the "demon dog" was Morna Westfield's Saluki, a prize winning bitch with an impressive pedigree, rather than the so-called dobermans who guarded the house at night which were closer to mongrels than anything.

"And this worries you... why exactly?," Dick asked.

Wordlessly, Tim removed his right glove and turned his hand so that Dick could see the dark bruises on the outside of it, each one a semi-circle, revealing the marks to be canine in origin.

"She did that this morning," Tim told him "the dog hates me."

A ripple of cold fury ran through Dick. Who the Hell let a dog do that to a kid?. He'd pegged Morna Westfield for all kinds of things, a cruel bitch wasn't one of them.

"Have you told Mrs. Westfield?," Dick asked as casually as he could manage.

"I tried once," Tim replied, shrugging as though it didn't really matter "she said Etilka was an angel, incapable of hurting anyone."

"Did you show her?," he nodded towards the marks on Tim's hand.

"Why would I do that?," Tim asked, slipping his glove back on "she'd just say I must have provoked her darling girl. And, I guess I sort of have."

"What do you mean?," Dick was having a hard time sitting on his anger, he did it only for Tim's sake.

He'd noticed a consistency in their conversations. If he got overly worked up about something, showing any irritation at all, Tim would get real quiet and become a mere shadow of himself.

"Well, my room used to be Etilka's favorite place to sleep. Lady Westfield says she loved the mattress at night, and to sleep on the floor in the sun during the day. Basically, I'm sleeping in the dog's bed. That's got to be annoying, having some stranger come in and take over your home."

Dick shifted uncomfortably, not trusting himself to speak in a neutral tone. Westfield manor was loaded with bedrooms. Why choose the dog's, out of all of the other options available?. Was Morna sadistic, or merely stupid?. Dick was inclined to believe the latter.

"You're chewing on something. Why not spit it out so we can both feel better?."

_Why do you have to be so damned observant?._ Dick thought.

"I just...," he stopped himself before his voice betrayed him, then started again "I don't like the way she treats you. Like a piece of furniture, to be placed where she wants. To be made into what she wants."

Bewilderment clouded Tim's eyes for a long moment, and a wrinkle briefly drew itself across his brow.

"You're concerned... about me?."

"And why not?," Dick asked defensively "we're friends, aren't we?."

"We are?," Tim blinked, then shook off his uncertainty "I guess we are."

"You guess?. Don't you know?. Why do you think I hang out with you?."

"Boredom?," Tim guessed.

"Seriously?. You think the most entertaining thing I can think of to do is hang around the picnic tables at a school I don't even go to?."

"We didn't meet by accident, did we?. You were here that day because you wanted to see me. Why?."

_You and your pointed questions,_ Dick thought.

"A friend of mine talked about you. I thought maybe we might have something in common. I don't make friends easily. Barbara says I'm too secretive, and maybe she's right."

The information fed itself into Tim's consciousness, and a new piece of life's puzzle clicked into place. If Barbara was Batgirl, might Dick be Nightwing?. If so... did that make Wayne Batman?. He didn't have enough information to know, but it somehow... _felt_ right.

Dick saw the light go on behind Tim's eyes, but assumed it was just the revelation of his connection to Barbara. He hoped that link made his presence here seem less stalkerish.

"Most of us keep secrets," Tim said, almost gently, as though trying to somehow reassure Dick "we do it to protect ourselves, and the people we care about. I think it's part of being human."

There were layers of meaning hidden beneath the words, but Dick was unable to decipher them. Or perhaps it was more a matter of willingness than ability.

* * *

"My daughter and I never got along," Morna was saying, though Bruce was just barely listening.

He wasn't sure how she'd talked him into this. Scratch that, he knew exactly why he was here, and it wasn't to drink tea and eat grapes with Morna Westfield.

He found himself unconsciously looking for the boy, the one he'd told himself he couldn't afford to be interested in. He was looking for a shadow in the hallway, listening for footsteps on the stairs- and not really paying all that much attention to what Morna had to say.

Morna didn't appear to notice, prattling on as though animated conversation was taking place- as opposed to enthusiastic monologue.

"She was a poor student and had bad taste in friends, which later developed into aberrant taste in men," Morna went on "she and I had few interests in common; she was too much like her father, Jack. Such a free spirit," her voice became almost wistful "so unafraid of life that his ended too soon."

Perhaps Morna was just trying to sound like a grieving widow, to draw Bruce into comforting her. But she sounded sincere. And, if it were an act, why not speak of her most recently departed husband?. It was entirely possible that Jack Drake had been her only real love, and his death had left a fractured woman, now a poor reflection of who she might have been.

Bruce had always assumed her reason for marrying Jack had been the same as the one for Arthur, but maybe he was in error. Arthur Westfield was no doubt married for his money, but maybe Jack was different. Maybe she'd really cared about him.

"And now, I find I'm a grandmother," Morna went on, her voice taking on that plastic coating which was a constant repellant to Bruce "with a grandson who looks... so much like my Jack."

"I thought Jack Drake was blond," Bruce commented dryly.

Morna's eyes glinted with slight suspicion. Bruce was pointing out, indirectly, that her hair was dyed, its true color hidden beneath years of falsehood, perhaps now lost forever.

"True," Morna said, after recovering herself "but Timothy has his grandfather's eyes. They're blue, you know," Bruce hadn't noticed "gray-blue, I suppose. The color of storm clouds. I used to hate the rain."

A crash came from the direction of the kitchen, interrupting the woman's reverie. The crash was followed by a harsh growling, deep throated and coldly menacing. Instinct drove Bruce to his feet and he moved swiftly towards the sound. Morna followed at a more human pace.

Bruce arrived in time to see the sleek white head of Etilka dart forward, her perfect curved fangs driving into the arm of a person. Tim had been knocked to the floor, backed himself into a corner created by kitchen cabinets and counter-tops, his left arm up to protect himself. It was this arm which the dog had bitten, her slashing canine teeth snatching at the air, attempting to reach her victim's face. There was blood on Tim's face, the origin of which was unclear.

In one motion, Bruce was across the kitchen and grabbing the dog's collar. He knew not to try and drag the dog away, he'd do more harm than good as the teeth raked through flesh. Instead, he twisted the collar, cutting off the dog's wind and forcing her to turn her head in order to get air into her lungs. The dog's claws scrabbled on the tile, and she clung to her caught prey for a moment, then released.

Bruce at once yanked her back, away from Tim, keeping tight hand on the collar, knowing that if he let go the dog would likely turn on him. And with good reason. He was a stranger to her, had attacked her from behind in her own home, and while she was in the midst of an aggressive fit.

Morna arrived in time to witness the end of the attack, to see Bruce pulling the dog backwards, front feet flailing helplessly in the air while the dainty white back feet tried in vain to brace on the tile. The dog was snarling, twisting her head right and left, trying to snap at her captor, determined to win her freedom, perhaps even fearing for her life.

"Were you teasing the dog again?," Morna's sharply spoken question was addressed to Tim.

His eyes shifted from the jaws of the dog to Morna. His body trembled slightly, probably due to residual fear from the attack, but the mind behind his eyes seemed to have already recovered. He did not speak, but there was barely concealed fury in the depths of his eyes, the eyes Morna had described as storm clouds. Flecks of green showed in his dark irises, hints of his ancestry. There was something accusatory in his stare, an unsettling look lacking in forgiveness, as though Morna were entirely at fault for the incident, as though she had set the dog on him herself.

The evidence in the room spoke for itself. The crash had been a plate, the fridge door was hanging open. The dog, even in her frenzy, continued to shift her sinuous body towards the fridge, to try and physically block it from the other people in the room. Bruce didn't know dogs, but he did know possessiveness. The dog had claimed the fridge as her own and was determined that nobody else would touch it. The fridge belonged to Etilka.

"Go up to your room," Morna commanded, her tone flat "I will speak with you later."

Slowly, with either reluctance or pain, Tim eased to a standing position. Every twitch of his muscles was met with a resounding roar-growl from the restrained dog. Once up, he eased his way around the room, keeping as many inches of space between himself and Etilka as he could possibly manage.

Once he was gone, Morna turned to the dog, commanded her to be silent and to sit. As the dog obeyed, Bruce released her, seeing the animal was now under control and no longer a threat.

"You certainly know how to control a situation," Morna said admiringly, one hand stroking Etilka's head "you have a good grasp of dogs."

"Not really," Bruce grunted, then added "maybe you should think about keeping the dog outside until she adjusts to the idea of sharing space with your grandson."

"Etilka has free run of the house," Morna snapped, fire lighting briefly in her eyes "I'd sooner put Timothy out in a kennel than her."

"I see. Well, why don't you then?. I'll take him home with me," Bruce was shocked and mildly appalled by his own suggestion, and hoped that Morna would say No, and that would be the end of it.

"That sounds like a lovely idea," Morna said, as Bruce had known she would "I'm sure Timothy would be happier with you and Dick. He needs to be around a good man, and a friend probably wouldn't hurt. I don't really have time for children," that much was obvious.

Morna lived in a world where she was queen, and her wants and needs were the most important thing in that world. Everything revolved around her. And Tim just didn't fit.

* * *

Alfred had taken Bruce's returning with a guest in stride, as though he'd expected it all along. Tim sat quietly while the butler examined his face and arm, long experience showing in the man's every move. He still hadn't said anything, the car ride to Wayne Manor had been totally silent.

Bruce sat watching Alfred at work, but really he was analyzing the earlier seen in Morna's kitchen, examining the details carefully, piecing together the puzzle of what had actually happened. It came together very differently from how Morna had concluded it.

Tim hadn't been teasing the dog, at least not intentionally. Evidence suggested he'd been minding his own business when the dog attacked him. Some dogs were more aggressively territorial than others. And no dog is so possessive over anything as much as food.

Bruce didn't stop to consider how tolerant Etilka must have been, allowing Tim to infringe on her territory time and again, until she finally just couldn't stand it anymore. All he knew was that Westfield Manor was an extremely dangerous place for Tim to be, so long as the dog was there.

"You never did tease that dog, did you," though phrased as such, it wasn't a question.

Tim's eyes flickered in Bruce's direction, but that was the only answer he gave.

Dick's arrival was noted only by glances in his direction. He raised an eyebrow at Bruce, knowing as he did that Wayne had done everything in his power not to become involved with Tim Drake.

"Tim's going to be staying with us for awhile," Bruce said, as though this were news to Alfred and Dick, or maybe because it was still news to _him_.

"Cool," Dick commented "don't worry, Tim. We won't have to share a bedroom."

Bruce thought that an odd remark, but didn't mention it. The statement had brought a small smile to Tim's face, as though he understood exactly what Dick meant by that. Dick grinned, always thoroughly pleased when he managed to drag an even mildly amused look out of Tim.

Alfred had finally gotten enough of the blood off Tim's face to reveal a gash just below his right eye. The dog's aim had been true, but Tim had moved at the last second, just enough to save that eye.

"Are you hurt anywhere else?," Alfred asked in his gentle, nonthreatening way.

"Just my arm," Tim shrugged, as though he considered the injuries barely worth noting and couldn't fathom what all the fuss was about.

Alfred didn't believe that. He asked Tim to remove his shirt, which the boy only did with extreme reluctance. Alfred's suspicions were confirmed. The dog hadn't bitten him anywhere else, but Tim had hit the cabinets hard, there was an especially dark, circular bruise where his back had hit one of the handles. He flinched when Alfred touched it, the only confirmation the butler needed that it hurt.

Alfred didn't point out that Tim had lied to him, didn't scold, merely went about his ministrations in his usual calmly efficient manner. Nor did he, or anyone else, comment on the labyrinth of scars traveling across Tim's arms, back and chest. Dick and Bruce did exchange looks.

They both bore similar scars, but it was due to their lifestyle as vigilantes. Tim was no vigilante, he was just an ordinary, helpless kid. Someone had done this to him deliberately, and it hadn't been during a fight. Bruce tightened his jaw, trying to hide his sudden burst of anger from Tim.

But there didn't seem to be any hiding from the dark eyes. Tim saw things and processed them a piece at a time, identifying each object before moving on to the next. As he did so, associations formed in his mind, as they do in all people's. Links between objects, such as most people don't even really think consciously about, eventually forming a complete picture in his mind.

Bruce refused to think about it, but he knew such a person wouldn't take long to uncover the secret in the basement. Though different in countenance and name, the look was the same as Dick many years ago and Jason more recently. But Bruce steadfastly ignored that, not even admitting to himself what he knew to be true. If Tim stayed here, he would become the next Robin.

Of that there could be no doubt.


	9. Truth Beneath the Mask

_February 25__th__, 05:30 AM_

_Wayne Manor_

The weather had turned colder again. Where it had been unseasonably warm, now it was colder than was typical of late February. It hadn't snowed, but half-frozen rain had turned to ice on the roads and sidewalks, thick layer of ice gave a white sheen to houses and yards. In the predawn light, the world acquired an unearthly luminescence, a ghostly air which seemed to be foretelling the future, or perhaps recounting the past.

Dick was surprised to find Tim awake, sitting in the living room and looking out the window at the world beyond. Dick was just coming in from a Team mission, tired and sore, yet knowing he couldn't afford to show it, lest he give his secret away.

"You always get up this early?," Dick asked, taking up a position across the room from Tim and leaning against the wall.

"I never slept," Tim replied quietly.

"How come?."

"I dunno, I guess maybe I was too tired."

Dick didn't laugh at that notion. It had happened to him, though usually when he had a lot on his mind. Though exhausted, his brain would continue to spin in circles, going around and around, unable to resolve whatever it was because he was too tired to remember the beginning of the thought by the time he managed to reach the end.

"It's so quiet here," Tim observed after a time.

"Getting bored?."

"No," Tim replied "it's nice. Quiet is... good."

"I guess things have been flying your way so much you start feeling like there's a target on your face," Dick commented, recalling earlier conversations.

It must be quite an experience for Tim, not to have people at him all the time, to not have constant yelling or crying going on around him, not to be blamed for every tiny unpleasantness in life.

"You don't have to be scared, you know," Dick said after a long moment "we won't abandon you. Bruce, Alfred and I. We'll make sure you don't have to go back to Morna Westfield."

"How did you know I was thinking about that?," Tim asked.

"Experience, mostly," Dick drifted over and sat on the the chair next to the couch where Tim was "when you lose your entire family, the world becomes a pretty scary place. Everyone wants a piece of you, but that's all. They don't care about you or what happens in the long run, just so long as they can feel good about the part they played in your life."

"That's the thing: my family isn't dead. My mother's alive, and my father... he's out there somewhere. And Lady Westfield..." he trailed off, shrugged in an attempt to make light of his circumstances.

"And not one of them is worth your time. None of them deserves to have you in their lives," Dick's words were harsh, all the harder to hear because they rang with truth.

"You talk like I'm actually worth having around."

"You are," Dick said quietly.

"Am I?. I don't have any talents, I've got no useful education, I'm-"

"Stop. Right there," Dick snapped, then softened his voice slightly "you're my friend. More than that, you're a person, you're alive, you matter. I've seen feral cats treated more humanely than you've been, but that doesn't mean they have more value. Experience shapes who we are, and prepares us for what we're meant to be. And you've experienced a lot. And don't you _dare_ let anyone throw that away, least of all yourself."

They fell silent, each absorbed in his own thoughts, both gazing out the window as though the dangerous world of white and black beyond might lend them some kind of answer to their private quandaries. Neither spoke nor made mention of the slow creeping sun which brought first light and then color to the landscape. The sun needed no fanfare, nor was there reason to speak of it when each of them could see it perfectly well for himself.

"I guess I should go, if I'm going," Tim said with a weary sigh.

"Where?."

"I was going to walk to school."

Even though he was living with Bruce instead of Morna, it was Lady Westfield who had official charge of him, and it was her opinion that he ought to go to school and be properly educated.

"Why walk?. Why not take the bus?," Dick asked.

"I don't know. I just prefer walking."

Dick caught the undertone of unease. A bus was confined, full of strangers. A total lack of control, with nowhere to go if things went sideways. Tim hadn't thought it out, but his instinctive response was the same as Dick's learned one. Confinement was to be avoided wherever possible, as was the company of strangers.

* * *

Tim was glad Dick had come with him. The feeling of being followed was back. He fought the impulse to look over his shoulder repeatedly, certain that it was just paranoia. Who would be hunting him now?. He hadn't stolen anything in quite some time. And he wasn't dressed as Robin. Hadn't been for a long time. Who would be interested in him now?.

His mind flickered to the bag which had been under his bed at Westfield Manor, now in the closet at Wayne Manor. Every tool he'd ever had as Robin was in that bag. He wasn't carrying any weapons now. He glanced at Dick, wondered if this was really the alter ego of Nightwing.

Could he tell they were being followed?. Or were they being followed?. How could you tell when you couldn't see anyone behind you?.

He realized that he could sense a change in Dick's demeanor. The older boy had gone quiet, his eyes had acquired a suspicious look, and it seemed as though each step was very cautious. Tim watched Dick out of the corner of his eye, reading the latter's actions to try and guess how he should react.

Tim slid his hand into his pocket, knowing whatever he found there might be his only chance at survival. He had a small pocket knife, the blade seemed about long enough to draw a drop or two of blood. But it's all he had.

He looked to the left and right, and spotted an alleyway. Confrontation felt inevitable, but it didn't have to be in public. After all, he didn't want the world thinking he was a freak. Or realizing he had played at being Robin. Or that Dick was Nightwing, if that's really who he was.

"You get the feeling we're being followed?," Dick asked.

Tim just looked at him, then off toward the alley. If Dick was an ordinary person, he'd take the gesture to mean they should avoid the alley. If he was anything else, he'd take it as a sign that this was where they ought to make their stand. Dick was anything but ordinary.

As they turned into the alley, Tim slipped slightly on the ice. Dick caught him without even looking, propelling him forward until they were underneath the fire escape of one of the buildings walling the alley. Dick didn't look at Tim or speak, but merely shoved him towards the fire escape and pointed up.

Tim obeyed silently, knowing for certain now that this was Nightwing, and that Nightwing knew what he was doing. There was no time for masks, but there was a complete transformation between Dick and Nightwing that took place in the space of seconds, as he turned to wait for whoever was stalking him.

Tim recalled a similar alley not far from here, where he'd not long ago survived an encounter with Nightwing. When he -Robin- had been cornered. He'd felt desperation then, now he felt only deep concern. He didn't know why. He knew Nightwing could handle himself, but he still felt fear for his friend. It was the kind you didn't ignore if you knew what was good for you.

Below, Dick felt the same profound sense of unease. Instinct bade him call the batcave, pride prevented him from doing so. Pride, the killer of the brave and betrayer of those who possess it. And, maybe, beneath that pride was a measure of fear. The sting of failure, the pain of loss, both were recent in memory, inextricably attached to Batman, and calling for aid.

The attack, when it came, was swift. Though he was facing the head of the alley, Dick only got the briefest glimpse of a darkened blur coming at him. It was enough warning for him to time a flip in the air so that he could avoid it, but not enough for him to identify his adversary.

Dick's landing was necessarily awkward thanks to the icy pavement. He let himself slide, sensing even as he hit the ground facing away that his opponent was already turning, a mass of black fabric and bulging muscles being the only impression Dick had gleaned.

As he slid, there was a loud _crack_ behind him. Something had struck the ice, hit it hard enough to break it, even though it was quite hard. Dick had a good idea about who was attacking him now.

The speed, the size, the strength... it had to be Black Death, that was the only explanation. But Black Death had not been known to hunt during the day. Even the most insane, violent and out of control monster preferred the darkness to the light. While murder in broad daylight is far from impossible, killers are beasts of the night. They feel safer, and superior, in the dark.

Dick had long known the unspoken law of criminals: those of evil tongue owned the day, and the night belonged to those with violent intent. And that was why he was Nightwing. He, and those like him, had taken it upon themselves to fight violence with violence, to combat directly the poison of their cities.

He slid in a circle on his knees, turning to face his adversary without rising. There were few things that could startle Dick into paralysis. What he saw on facing his enemy was one of those things.

The massive body topped by broad shoulders, narrowed dark eyes, thick bull neck, the enormous hands and forearms, every line denoted power in its purest form: strength, speed, agility, none of which were equaled by the rest of humanity barring those with super powers. The wildly ferocious expression, the same look of a caged tiger or rabid dog, unreasoning and hateful.

Everything about his body, his movement, his expression, all of it was Black Death. Dick would know that deranged being anywhere, was now convinced he'd known who was stalking them before they'd even turned down the alley. None of that was what shocked him.

No, what froze him, left him defenseless for a breath in time, was who this monster was, rather than _what_ he was. This was, indeed, Black Death. But it was _not_ Harry Thompson.

It was the eyes which betrayed the difference. Dick remembered the eyes of Harry Thompson, very small eyes, almost black pinpoints. These eyes, they were narrowed, but they were not small.

Dick was only frozen in place for a split-second, gazing into the pitiless depths of the mad eyes. But a split-second was all that was necessary to take him down. The figure swept forward, like a bulldozer running over a fern, flattening Dick, thrusting him aside like an afterthought.

Dick bounced off the wall, his vision momentarily going black, then springing back with a white flash. He knew his mistake would cost him his life. What he didn't know, was that he was not alone in the alley. He knew that Tim was there, certainly, but hadn't even begun to realize that Tim was Robin. He'd had the feeling that Tim might become Robin, but the idea that he had already assumed the identity had not dawned on him.

Measuring the distance with bird-like accuracy, Tim threw himself from the fire escape's railing and onto the shoulders of the enemy. He drew his arm across the thick neck of his adversary, half afraid it wouldn't be long enough, then drove his boots into the small of his enemy's back, throwing his meager weight away without letting go. The treacherous ice and gravity did the rest.

The huge man fell, Tim darted out of harm's way just before the heavy body touched down on the ice.

He stood at the head of the alley, eyes looking from Black Death to his fallen friend. Dick's vision was swimming, and he was fighting to get upright, but it would take him precious seconds to recover, especially now that his fragmented mind was trying to come to terms with what he'd seen through blurred vision. He recognized the motion, even without being able to make out fine details.

He knew that the move belonged to Robin. Tim. Robin. One and the same. He tried to shove that to the back of his mind, but his brain felt like it was sloshing around in his skull and refused to help him.

Tim knew that Dick needed time. Time he did not have, as Black Death was already rising, a roar of anger growing in his throat as he did so.

_I can't fight him. He's too strong,_ Tim thought, his mind working out every angle, _but I can give Nightwing time. He only needs time. I can give him that at least._

"You want me?," Tim snarled, drawing the attention of the monster "that's right, I'm the one who knocked you down. You want revenge?. Come and take it!."

"Tim, no!."

But Dick's shout went ignored. Tim shifted his weight and threw his pocket knife. The short blade was blocked by a raised forearm. It dug into the flesh of his enemy, and Black Death unleashed a roar of rage. He exploded forward like a horse from the starting gate.

Tim at once leaped backward, turned, and fled. Dick could only watch helplessly. Swaying on his feet, he felt around for his radio. Pride shattered, fearing for the life of this Robin who might yet be saved, Dick didn't hesitate now to put out a call for help.

* * *

"What the hell happened?," Batman demanded.

He was in the batmobile, heading for Nightwing's location. Nightwing had given the minimum of details required to get him on the move, and Batman was now demanding more information.

"_He came out of nowhere, and I wasn't fast enough. Tim... Tim distracted him and took off."_

"WHAT?!," Batman was not given to vocal outbursts, and Nightwing flinched on the other end of the line.

"_I should have seen it sooner. I should have known..."_

"Known what?," Batman asked, but Nightwing didn't answer, so he moved on to a different question "do you have any idea where they went?."

"_I know exactly where Tim's taking him."_

"How?."

"_Because it's where I fought him once before."_

"Fought who?."

"_Robin."_

Batman was briefly at a loss for words. His mind flashed on every encounter with Tim. The look in the boy's eyes, the way he chose his words, his tone of voice. Everything bespoke of the elaborate masquerade played out by so many on both sides of the fight between good and evil. Yet he hadn't recognized it until now, maybe because he hadn't wanted to.

"This isn't Black Death's usual pattern," Batman said at last, unable to comment on the revelation just yet "he doesn't attack during the day."

"_Maybe this one does."_

"This one?," Batman drew each word into a carefully chewed sentence.

"_It's not Harry Thompson."_

"A copycat?," Batman theorized.

"_I don't think so, not unless he's damned committed. He seemed every bit as much Black Death as Harry Thompson, but the face beneath the mask was a different one. I don't get it, I thought there was only one Black Death, now I find there's two. What do you suppose that means?."_

Batman reviewed all the information on Black Death he'd been gathering over the years. A sudden, terrible thought came into place: what if there were more than two?. What if the killings throughout the country were, in fact, different men playing the same role?.

"'All the world's a stage'," he quoted aloud "'and all the men and women merely players'."

"_Damn."_

The single expletive carried through the speaker said that Nightwing had heard and understood. There was a weight to it, fully expressing in just four letters the depth of the terrible reality just now revealed to the speaker. One mindless killer of men was a bad thing, the idea of an entire cult devoted to the indiscriminate and purposeless killing of any and all members of the human race, that was a true horror story. These were not tyrants hellbent on ruling the world, nor were they aliens attempting to purge the planet of humanity. These were human beings, killing their own kind.

Why?. Out of hatred?. For fun?. Or simply because they could?.

It was decidedly unsettling. Serial killers, as a rule, were loners. They generally favored a certain type of victim for whatever reason, generally far more specific than "human". What did it mean if they were hunting in packs, killing anything and everything that got in their way?. What were the implications?.

* * *

"Are you sure he could run this far?," Batman asked.

He'd picked up Nightwing, who had in turn pointed him in the direction of the other alley, the one where he and Robin had once fought.

"No other choice," Nightwing replied darkly "I don't know how I know that's where he's going, but it is. And I have to believe he could make it."

Batman didn't ask why. The set of Nightwing's jaw and the concern in his eyes was enough of an answer. He did not want to see another Robin die. And, no doubt, he believed the current situation was somehow his fault. Batman wondered if his son could survive feeling responsible for the death of this Robin, so soon after the loss of the other.

He was determined that they would get there before that happened. He would not watch his son destroy himself out of guilt. He could not lose another son. Not like that.

* * *

Tim had not forgotten his fight with Nightwing. More than its location, he remembered every move he'd made, every counter move Nightwing had used, what had worked and what hadn't. He had no names for these things, or a true list of every mistake he'd made, nor did he have anyone to tell him whether he later practiced them correctly or not. But he did remember, and had practiced, even when he stopped being Robin. There was something undeniably important about self-defense, at least to him. Mask or no, he knew fighting would always play a part in his ability to survive.

But this was different. His adversary was far larger, far stronger and far more vicious than Nightwing had been. Nightwing might well have maimed him in order to bring him down, but at no time had the black bird given indication that he wished to end Robin's existence. This enemy, of which Tim had virtually no knowledge, wanted him dead.

_You don't have to win,_ he told himself, _you only have to survive._

That was all well and good, so long as he stayed out of his adversary's range.

The first hit that connected, an elbow crashing down on his ribcage, put any previous injuries he'd ever sustained to shame. The impact threw him back, his shoulder struck against the edge of a dumpster before he went down. Not only was the wind knocked out of him, but Tim couldn't get any breath in for several seconds. His head swam, stars sang in front of his eyes.

He rolled instinctively, narrowly evading an oncoming knee. But he hadn't moved enough to avoid a secondary hit, a sweeping strike of the right arm. The blow was a glancing one, but it sent Tim sprawling across the ice, momentarily spinning on his back like a turtle.

Feeling his vulnerability, Tim did the only thing he could; pulled his arms and legs close to his body to protect his midsection, neck and head, then wait for the world to stop spinning and regain some of its former color. Tim had just about concluded that he sucked at fighting.

There was a long moment, seemingly an eternity, where nothing happened. Or nothing _seemed_ to happen. The large man stood over Tim, staring down at him, and Tim struggled to see the man through his blurred vision, wondering why he was still alive at this time.

The screech of brakes, loudly announcing the arrival of the batmobile, ended it. The man took one look at the two vigilantes headed his way, and evidently decided whatever it was he was trying to accomplish just wasn't worth it. He fled.

Nightwing gave chase but returned not long after, having lost him.

Tim was sitting up by this point, right arm around his chest to protect his ribs.

"Nobody told me I'd have to fight my way to school," he commented, turning a bright eye in Nightwing's direction. There was no denying it: Tim knew exactly who he was.


	10. You Want to be Fooled

_February 26__th__, 08:07 AM_

_Wayne Manor_

Tim was lucky. Extremely lucky. When Bruce had examined him, he'd located only two cracked ribs, though he'd briefly been puzzled by a certain unevenness of other ribs, which Tim explained had been broken before and healed on their own. He didn't seem internally damaged, at least not badly.

So far, nobody had said a word about the discoveries of the day before. Bruce had called the school, said Tim wouldn't be attending this week, and that was the end of it. Breakfast the next morning had featured animated conversation on Dick's part, total absence on Bruce's. Tim had noticed that Dick never once glanced at his plate once they started eating, locating the food presumably from memory.

Now they were in the kitchen, watching Alfred do the dishes. Tim had volunteered to dry them, but Alfred wouldn't hear of it. Dick had commented that the butler was very possessive of "his" kitchen.

Dick was perched on the counter near the sink, sucking on a lemon wedge. Tim thought that a hideous thing to do right after breakfast, but Dick seemed to be enjoying it, so he didn't say anything.

As for Dick's observations, he noticed that Tim was mutely fascinated by the large amounts of bubbles Alfred's dish washing was producing. As usual, Alfred was washing by hand. Dick had never been able to fathom why. They had a perfectly good dishwasher. Tim watched the bubbles like he'd never seen so many, and wasn't even sure what they were.

"Bubbles aren't what get dishes clean, and people know it. And yet, suds is a huge selling point with dish soap, because people willingly fool themselves into thinking the bubbles somehow matter," Dick commented, apparently without provocation.

He paused when Bruce appeared through the kitchen doorway, then went on.

"They purposely believe what they know to be illusion. Smoke pellets are no different. Everyone knows I have them, and what I'm doing behind them, but few people have called me out on it. They'll stand there, staring at the smoke like they never saw it coming, like they've no idea what's going on. People, even villains, want to be fooled."

Tim wasn't sure how to respond to that. That was almost like an open invitation to ask questions about Nightwing, as it was a bizarre merging of both the secret identity and the mask. Tim decided he'd be better off staying quiet. After all, nobody had said anything about yesterday's incident. Best he leave that alone. He had the uneasy feeling he'd screwed something up, but wasn't sure what.

He guessed it was probably his knowledge that Bruce and Dick were Batman and Nightwing respectively. That was dangerous information for a thirteen-year-old to possess. Especially a practical stranger, an outsider, like he was.

"Dick, a word," Bruce's face was dark, he sounded angry.

A twinge of fear, swiftly followed by fierce resentment, played through Dick's eyes. Slowly, almost sulkily, he got down off the counter and followed Bruce into the other room. He paused in the doorway to throw the leftover peel from his lemon at the garbage can in the corner. He didn't even turn to gauge the distance, just tossed the peel over his shoulder. It hit the exact center of the can, Tim noticed.

Dick turned his head slightly and flashed Tim an mischievous grin. Then he was out the door.

_How does he do that?,_ Tim wondered, _could I do that with enough practice?._

Alfred had paused at Bruce's words, a soapy dish halfway out of the water. Now he went back to washing the dishes, pretending a little too hard that he hadn't noticed the tone of Bruce's voice. His imperfect act added to Tim's unease.

"Robin is dead!," the shout came from the living room.

Bruce and Dick were evidently having an argument. Over Tim. Alfred cast a sympathetic eye in the boy's direction, but said nothing.

"No, Jason Todd is dead," was Dick's response.

"I will not have another Robin in this house."

Alfred glanced at where Tim had been, but he was gone, and therefor missed the rest of the conversation, which took a very different turn.

"I will not create another," Bruce said "just to watch him die."

"You just don't get it, do you?!. You don't _choose_ to create a vigilante. You didn't make me into Robin, you just kept me from killing myself, protected me from my darker half until I was ready to protect myself. Robin was already there, you just saved his life," Dick growled, his fury matching Bruce's note for note "nobody wants to make people they care about into vigilantes. Nobody. But that was never your call. Your choice was in what you did after realizing that I would inevitably come to be behind a mask. You chose to help me become a hero instead of a villain. To help me live instead of die."

"That's not true," Bruce's voice was quieter now.

"You know it is. You know I would have destroyed myself, and everyone around me, if you hadn't tempered the steel of Robin with some reason. Bruce, you can't kill an idea. You can't destroy a symbol. Robin isn't something that can be killed. People can be killed, ideals never die. That boy is Robin, whether you like it or not."

"I don't believe that."

"Well, I do. And I can't let that alone. He nearly got himself killed to save my life, because no one has taught him. No one has refined his raw talent, or taught him to focus. He needs help, Bruce."

"I can't."

"Then I will."

"You can't take him to Blüdhaven," Bruce protested, adding hastily "Legally, he belongs to Morna."

"Then I will stay here and train him. I made a mistake once, I assumed a boy knew what he was doing and let him go before he was ready. I will _not_ make that mistake again."

"And if he gets killed?," Bruce asked pointedly.

"Then I'll have to live with that. But better he die because it was impossible to save him than because nobody had ever cared enough to teach him how to survive."

Bruce may have wanted to continue the argument, but Dick returned to the kitchen, a shiver of irritation running across his shoulders. It took no time at all for him to notice Tim's absence.

"I believe it was all the yelling which disturbed him," Alfred commented mildly.

Dick flashed an angry glance over his shoulder at Bruce, who was just now entering the room.

"He'll be back," Bruce said, almost defensively.

"No," Dick said "he won't. Not unless we look for him."

"What makes you think that?," Bruce asked.

"He overheard you say you didn't want Robin in your house. What do you think that meant to him?. Didn't you hear anything I just said?."

"What does that have to do with-"

"He thinks you don't want _him_ here!," Dick exploded furiously "It's like you don't even listen when I talk!. He is Robin, and you said you didn't want him. Where's the mystery, _detective_?!," the final word, spoken with a sneer, was the prelude to Dick stomping out and slamming the front door behind him.

"I believe Master Dick has a point," Alfred ventured gently.

"I know," Bruce said with a heavy sigh "and that's what scares me."

He knew he had to go help Dick look for Tim, though he wasn't sure where to start. Tim was Dick's friend, not his. Would Tim go to Barbara, perhaps?. They were something like friends now, weren't they?. Bruce was loath to admit that he hadn't the foggiest idea. He'd sort of purposely avoided learning much about Tim and his habits.

Everything he learned about the boy pointed to a single truth, one which he did not want to face. The self-same truth Dick had just now pointed out to him. Robin was not dead.

* * *

_01:00 PM_

_Gotham High_

"I don't get it," Barbara said "where could he go?."

She had joined the hunt for Tim when Bruce had called her to see if Tim had visited her. He'd waited for awhile after Tim left, to give the boy time to get there if he was going there at all.

Bruce, Dick and Barbara were now gathered outside the high school. Dick was sitting on a picnic table, bouncing a rubber ball on the concrete as though he'd come here specifically to do that. His casual look was driving Barbara nuts. He was the one who'd said Tim wasn't coming back, that they had to find him, so why was he so damn cool about it?.

"We've looked everywhere," Barbara persisted "even his old apartment, hellhole that it is, he might think of it as being home. But he wasn't there- will you PLEASE stop bouncing that damn ball!?."

Her sudden outburst was met with silence and that damnable calm gaze, the one he'd inherited from Bruce, that unreadable look that was either bastardized confidence or the feigning thereof.

However, he did have the decency to catch the ball and put it in his pocket. He was being obnoxious on purpose, making her ask him to stop. She knew, with a sting of frustration, that he could read her silences in a way that she could not read his. It stood as a humiliating reminder that she did not fit into the world of Batman. Hero she might be, but she was not truly a child of Batman.

She remembered the day she'd met Tim. She had at once been drawn and repelled by him, seeing immediately how he resembled those who were of the Batman line. Though not related by blood, each of them had a certain way of moving, and expressing himself that was unique to the breed. She had taken the name, projected the illusion in form, but could not execute the persona at its base level because it was not truly in her nature. She wondered if she might need to take another name. That thought made her angry too. She felt excluded from a private club, excluded because her state of being did not fall in line with the requirements. It was endlessly frustrating.

Barbara took a breath to calm herself. It came to her that Dick hadn't gone about being intentionally annoying in a long time. He was always at his most obnoxious when he was worried about something, or when he was angry. She guessed he might well be both and decided to lay off him for now.

"Where could he possibly go?," she asked.

"That kid had free run of the city before he was out of diapers," Dick replied "he could go anywhere."

Barbara narrowed her eyes, glaring at him "That's not very helpful."

Through all this, Bruce had been completely silent, he and Dick were studiously avoiding each other's eyes. Evidently, words had passed between them, expanding the rift which had been present for almost as long as Barbara could remember. She'd never asked about it, but she thought it must have come about around the time Dick ran off to Blüdhaven. The same time, she remembered, that he had dropped the name of Robin and acquired Nightwing as an alias.

You didn't ask Bats, real Bats, about their past. They'd either tell you, or they wouldn't. It was on their terms, in their own good time. And it was utterly maddening.

"Well, we can't just give up," Barbara said when it was evident that Dick was not going to speak on his own "we can't give up on him. He could be in real trouble."

"You want I should put up fliers?," Dick asked in a voice tinged with sarcasm.

Barbara opened her mouth to retort, but thought better of it. Dick was tired, probably still hurting from his brief skirmish with Black Death, and evidently injured from whatever fight he and Bruce had been having before all this started. More than that, his eyes were at last beginning to betray his concern for Tim to Barbara. His expression was finally cracking, becoming readable to someone outside those of his own kind. His own kind, what a strange thing to think. He was human, just as she was. But he was also something... very different. Something she wasn't, couldn't be, was incapable of understanding, no matter how much she fussed and fumed about it.

"We're worried about him too," Dick said, his face softening momentarily.

Bruce looked at him, but didn't contradict or confirm that. Dick's eyes met his adoptive father's, just for an instant. It was as though information, complex and diverse, flashed between them, brushing roughly past the uncomprehending Barbara. She'd been left out again.

"I hate it when you do that," She grumbled.

Dick's only response was to smirk, Bruce pretended he hadn't even heard. Before Barbara could think of another complaint, a look crossed Dick's face, as though he'd just read something very interesting.

"Care to share with the rest of the class?," Barbara asked, demanded really.

"I know where Tim is," Dick said, a slow grin spreading across his face, as though this was hilarious.

"What?. How?...," Barbara shook her head, aligning her thoughts "Where?."

With a flick of his wrist, Dick produced a playing card. Barbara knew it must have come out of his sleeve, but he'd done it so artfully that she hadn't seen it, even standing right next to him. Deftly, he flipped the card so Barbara could see the face of it.

"It's a jack of diamonds. So?. And shouldn't that be an ace?," _and where the Hell do you keep a deck of cards?._

She knew that Dick had his entire Nightwing arsenal on underneath his clothing, just as she was ready to "go Batgirl" at a moment's notice. She knew there were virtually no empty spaces for putting extra things because every single inch was occupied by something of the Bat arsenal, which was the main reason she always carried a purse. She didn't even have space for a wallet in her pocket. So where did he put those cards?.

Her eyes went to Bruce, and she saw that he'd understood the message contained within the playing card. She also saw he was impressed. Sleight of hand was a must in their line of work. Though Batman might be the better illusionist, Dick was by far the better performer, showing off an illusion without giving it away instead of having to hide it in order to keep its secrets.

"The art of the disappearing act is not in the disappearance itself, but rather the reappearance and the audience's desire for the trick to work."

"English. Some of us were not circus performers," Barbara hissed.

"He's hiding in plain sight," Dick said, turning the card again and again between two fingers "the most obvious place for him to be, except for one thing."

"Dick!," Barbara hated suspense, and Dick knew it too.

"We couldn't find him, because we wanted to be fooled. He didn't run away. He went home."

"We already searched the apartment-"

"He doesn't live there anymore. Legally speaking, at least for the time being, Tim belongs to Lady Westfield," the woman whose diamonds he had stolen.

"It would have been easier if you'd used the knave of hearts, _Dick_," Barbara grumped.

"Left it in my other shirt," Dick shrugged, in the same motion making the card disappear "that kid's smart, picks up on things real fast," a snap of the fingers produced the jack of hearts (otherwise known as the knave of hearts).

"How come you're not this annoying around the Team?," Barbara asked.

"A performance is only as good as its audience," Dick replied smoothly.

Barbara couldn't quite decide if that was a compliment or an insult, and so let it lie.

"I think he had another reason," Bruce said thoughtfully.

"Oh?," Dick looked miffed that Bruce wanted to elaborate, if not entirely contradict, him.

Barbara hid a smirk behind one hand.

_Way to wipe that smug grin off him, Bruce._

"I think he knew we'd figure it out. Knew it was the only place where we wouldn't follow him," Bruce explained "he knew we'd look for him, even if he doesn't admit to himself that he has value."

"Like the people and their foam products, supporting the illusion for themselves as much as the customers who buy the stuff," Dick's comment made absolutely no sense to Barbara, but she didn't ask.

She felt sure that she really didn't want to know. And that was what separated her, now and forever, from Batman and his offspring. She didn't just "not understand" them. She didn't even _want_ to understand, though she was loath to admit that to herself. To understand meant opening herself up to a darker reality than the one she was familiar with, a world of dragons she chose to ignore.

Though the meaning behind the comment was probably benign, asking about it might somehow bring her further into the world than she wanted to be, standing as she was at the threshold between darkness and light, only moonlighting, merely playing at being what these creatures truly were.

Like the man said, she wanted to be:

_Fooled_.

* * *

_Westfield Manor_

Batgirl was not the only one trying to cast a sheet over reality. Both Batman and Nightwing had put out of their minds the tremendous oddity of Black Death attacking during the day. Though both made it a habit to notice clues and follow them to their logical conclusion, this one they had subconsciously dropped, like a pedestrian dropping a bit of crumpled paper.

It didn't dawn on them, perhaps because they didn't want it to. Even Nightwing, who had already admitted the truth about what Tim was, hadn't come to recognize the deeper reality. He thought on some level that Black Death might have come for revenge, and it disconcerted him to think that there was more than one, and that they might know who he was. He didn't think, even for a moment, that it was Tim who was the real target. And not accidentally, either.

But Tim knew. As soon as he realized his stalker wasn't Nightwing, who was the only other candidate, he knew that he was being hunted by this monstrous hulk of a man whom he knew nothing about. He didn't know why, but the why was far from the most critical piece of the puzzle.

Tim was running from more than just the people he believed didn't want him. Perhaps it was even a lie he told himself, to give him courage to leave them, and take Black Death elsewhere.

He'd picked a city out of a hat, and come to Morna Westfield to announce that he wanted to go there. She had the means to send him. Perhaps Black Death would not be able to follow. No, that was a delusion he could not allow himself to fall into.

But, if he was far away, then at least the people he cared about -people who really mattered- wouldn't be caught in the crossfire. If Black Death wanted him dead, so be it. Yet he suspected this was not the case. He didn't know why, but the crawling of the skin at the back of his neck told him that there was something far more sinister, far more dangerous, going on beneath the surface.

"Were I your mother, I would not permit this," Morna said, sitting on her white couch, one hand gently stroking Etilka's ears.

Tim sat across from her in an armchair, tense and barely able to sit still.

"However, I am not. It was not given to me to care what happens to you, not like a mother ought to. I believe you capable of caring for yourself. You'll not want for anything, so long as you don't cause any trouble over there. You leave in the morning."

"Thank you, Lady Westfield."


	11. Demon at the Gate

_09:00 PM_

_Westfield Manor_

Morna had gone to bed early, and insisted that Tim do so as well. She had gone almost right to sleep, lying awake only long enough to make sure that Etilka had settled for the night. The dog was down the hall, before the closed bedroom door of Tim's room, her slim form illuminated by a nightlight.

Morna always left a light on in the living room, and had nightlights in the halls and bathrooms, so that if she got up in the night and needed to relieve herself or get a drink of water, she wouldn't stumble in the darkness. Morna hated to admit it, even to herself, but she had never quite escaped that childhood fear of the dark. There were things in the night, things without name, which couldn't be understood.

Monsters lurked in the dark. Whether they were man or beast made no difference; they were there nonetheless. It was absurd to think they might fear the light but, like most people with phobias, Morna didn't stop to consider the practical side. Creatures of the dark stayed in the shadows, shunning or maybe shunned by the light.

She considered again why she had dobermans guarding her home. Their intimidation factor was in their appearance, not their bark. Their silence and fierce stance were enough to frighten anyone. And they were well-capable of tackling and holding anyone who ignored their visual threat.

But they were only loose in the night, rendered invisible by their silence and black coats. The true power of a guard dog is in the intimidation factor, the real reason they are often large. A grown man might well be brought down by a sixty pound Malinois, but its mere presence will not intimidate the novice who sees strength only in size. A Mastiff, now there was an animal nobody would argue with.

_A good blond Mastiff, now there's a real guard. Huge, highly visible and with a deep, commanding bark. But not especially pretty._ Funny, she thought as she drifted off, that she was more concerned with appearance than effective protection...

* * *

_02:00 AM_

...she was awakened by the sound of a crash coming from the first floor, in the living room. Morna lay still, hoping she'd dreamed the noise. For an interminable number of seconds, silence reigned.

Then from the darkness there came a low rumble, a preternatural roar, a sound which could be equated with the growl of Cerberus, the guardian of Hades. The light in the hall barely touched the inner room, but a pair of eyes, flashing lantern bright, glowed in the doorway, peering into the gloom like a specter.

Morna withheld a scream, recognizing all at once the greyhound-like outline of her beloved Etilka. The dog moved, her legs stiff, head low, a hideous ridge of fur along her arched spine.

The snarl came again, followed by a rough, uneven clunk-scrape sound from the living room, like heavy chain being dragged across the floor. The brilliant eyes floated away from the door, a world of fury inside them, the feral gaze of something otherworldly and unnatural. A click of claws seemed to somehow accompany the chain rattle.

Then everything was silent. The eyes vanished. Etilka was gone from view.

A heartbeat passed. Two. Three. _Four_.

* * *

Tim was lying awake, staring at the ceiling when he heard the crash. At once, he'd rolled off the bed and under it, instinctively seeking both shelter and the contents of the bag underneath the bed.

A flash of movement revealed by the gap between the bottom of the door and the floor got his immediate and undivided attention. The thing on the other side of the door stopped, and there was the sound of heavy breathing, a loud huffing like something was sniffing at the door.

Tense, ready to spring into action, Tim waited.

* * *

In the hallway, Etilka had spotted the intruder. The thing was about six feet high with shoulders which hunched above its back and a lowered head. Etilka could only make out the vaguest outline of it. A massive shape with no distinctness to it. It could be anything. It moved in a deliberate, predatory manner, prowling near the door to her room, the room _stolen_ by that interloper.

But that was not at the forefront of the dog's cunning mind. It's hard to say exactly what she was thinking, being as she was a dog, but it's a good bet that her thought process went something like this: _Intruder. Dangerous._

She halted and her head swung up and to the side to better see the hideous beast which had invaded her home. Brilliant eyes flashed evilly in the dark. Her slim muzzle pointed right up at the thing, lips drawn back from glimmering white teeth. A low growl emanated from her throat as she prepared to spring. She was warning this thing away, telling it to go before she lost her temper.

Etilka was ever courteous to her unwanted guests, even now she offered to let this mongrel of a living thing leave her presence unharmed, if only it would _go_.

It's hard to say which of them moved first, the intruder or the dog. But once in motion, the collision between the two was inevitable. The dog leaped high, her slashing fangs driving for the eyes which she had seen, driving for the vulnerable part of her adversary.

A massive limb came up, blocking her. Etilka's deep chest slammed against the barrier and her teeth clicked together short of their goal. She was thrust back and spun through the air with a yelp. Twisting, cat-like, she managed to land on her feet.

Something was sailing through the air towards her head. She didn't know what it was, but there was no time for her to dodge. At the last second, when the end of the weighted chain was mere inches from her head, there was a _clink_ and it was flung off to the side, nailed smartly to the wall by a birdarang.

Robin had joined the party. He knelt in the doorway of the bedroom, hugging the shadows to keep himself beyond sight. He was the unexpected, he had to play that trump card for all it was worth.

Etilka's head swung towards him, and she recognized him. There was a moment where she looked as though she would attack him over even this intruder, but her eyes instead turned toward the real enemy. Perhaps she hated him, surely she wanted him gone, maybe even wished him dead, but the dog was no fool. Here, in this instant, he was not her enemy. She had bigger problems.

The dog barked once, a rallying cry. She had struck against her adversary, knew she could not destroy it on her own. She called for aid, but her only answer was in the thinly shining birdarang stuck in the wall. The dobermans must have been killed, in the same manner as she had nearly been.

A blow to the head, delivered by an expert on matters related to death.

The dog stood, barring entry to the quarters of her mistress, reluctant to engage without further provocation. The thing shifted towards her, and she at once lunged at the hateful thing. Robin moved in tandem with the dog, throwing a birdarang towards the center of the target, below the dog as he rolled out into the hall, finding new cover in the doorway of another room.

The intruder noticed both projectiles, the dog and the birdarang, and realized he was outmaneuvered. He could not block both attacks, and so was forced to sidestep, giving the dog freedom to land somewhere beyond him. He was now surrounded, Robin on one side, the dog crouched somewhere in the dark on the other, low snarls the only clue to her whereabouts.

The second birdarang had lodged in the floor a foot or so beyond where Etilka had chosen to make her stand. The dog's faith in her new partner must have been profound to leave him guarding the door to her beloved mistress' bedchamber.

Etilka had known, always, that Robin lay just beneath the surface. Each time she bit, she had known that it was possible for Tim to fight back. She had known he was dangerous, and had known, as no one else could have, that he found his origin in a place of utter blackness. She had been able to sense the darkness from which he'd come, which had become a part of him before he'd arrived.

She was now relying on that darkness to aid her in her time of need.

If she had known the truth, it is doubtful that she would have allowed Robin to live for one minute more. For this demon was his, it had come especially for him. Black Death had come to call.

Robin was letting Etilka take the lead, not only because this was her home and his fault it was being invaded, but also because the grave Saluki knew more about what she was doing than he did. Dogs inherently know, and more easily learn, the elements of battle than humans do. Etilka had probably been born with more raw talent than Robin could dream of acquiring in a lifetime.

He kept an eye on the dog. When he saw her drop her head lower, he took that as a sign that he ought to provide a distraction in the split-second before she leaped. Flinging himself into the hallway, he tossed smoke pellets. Let Black Death try and predict what he was doing.

It might seem a useless gesture to throw smoke in the darkness, but remember that it was not completely dark, that the nightlights provided a minimum of illumination. The sound, sudden blackness and smoke provided exactly the distraction necessary for the dog to accomplish her task.

Black Death turned blindly in her direction, hearing the claws on the floor but unable to actually see his assailant. She struck Black Death full in the chest and both fell to the floor, dog atop monster. He twisted wildly, trying to regain his balance, but to no avail. The dog swung, her jaws clicking shut just shy of his face, then closing again, this time successfully on his arm.

The pain as the jaws ground into bone and teeth tore into flesh wrung a scream from him, making him suddenly seem more man than beast. He swung with his free arm, and the blow crashed into the dog's exposed side, sending her flailing away, jaws still locked in flesh.

Robin leaped in, trying to restrain the other arm, to protect the dog. But Black Death was far stronger than he. Even yelling with pain, shuddering on his back on the floor, he had the strength to thrust Robin away. The boy bounced off the wall, his head hitting hard enough to send flashes of light through his vision. He crumpled to the floor and took a moment to regain his senses.

It was a moment too long.

The dog's jeweled collar betrayed her as a meaty hand closed on it, twisted it cruelly, cutting off her air, choking her until she was unable to hold on. Then she was thrown forcefully down the hall. The dog rolled to the stairs and fell, her body striking brokenly as she tumbled to the first floor where she finally stopped and lay still as death.

"I called the police and-," Morna stepped into the hall in her nightgown, but never finished her sentence as a silver blade curved through the air and slashed across her jugular- perfect aim.

She fell to her knees with a gasp, trying to hold the blood, to keep it from spurting from her neck like a fountain, trying to scream. But she couldn't.

Robin was on his feet again, and went on the offensive. He drove for the man's knees, his shoulder slamming forcefully into the back of the man's legs. Black Death started to fall forward but windmilled his arms. His knees still gave out, but he fell backward, his weight crashing down onto Robin's back.

Robin writhed and twisted, but was trapped. Black Death used his position and strength to ensure that the boy remained that way, in spite of his struggling. He shifted his weight, putting as much as was possible on Robin, preventing intake of breath on the part of his captive.

The wild thrashing became a weak flailing, then finally stopped entirely.

Black Death arose slowly, careful not to completely crush his defeated and unconscious adversary. By this time, Morna Westfield had almost completely bled out, the strong heart of which she had always been so proud efficiently bringing about a rapid demise.

The man stood over the prone figure, eying Robin appreciatively. He'd been a lively, if unrefined, opponent, one hindered neither by fear nor rage, seemingly driven by instinct. Black Death could appreciate fine instinct.

He could hear sirens now, but that was of little import. He was done here, and would soon be away. He turned and went to Tim's room, saw the rumpled bed was empty, an open bag lay beside it as though something had been hastily pulled from it.

Understanding dawned and the evil eyes slide towards Robin. No wonder the cheeky fellow was so damned good. He and Tim Drake were one and the same person. Interesting.

As he turned to claim his prize, a low-throated growl sounded from the head of the staircase. Black Death turned to face it. The dog stood, her right side black with blood, a snarl on her face, heritage of the wolf visible in her demonically flashing eyes.

She went for him, jaws agape. He could kill her. But not fast enough. So instead he ran, going for the window. He cannon-balled through the window, glass shattering all around, feeling a searing pain in his back as the dog raked her teeth across the flesh there.

And then he was gone.

When the police arrived, they heard a heart-wrenching, ululant cry from the broken window. The ghostly white form of a dog, blood streaked down her side and a strip of flesh between her teeth stood there, paws on the sill, head raised to the absent moon, screaming at the night.

Upstairs, they found Tim. At the beginning of the fight, he'd had time only for a mask and utility belt. Awakening to the sound of sirens, he hastily yanked them off and shoved them into the bag before kicking it into the closet. He was just staggering back into the hall when the police came up the stairs and shone bright flashlights at his face.

The dog whirled on them, recognizing them as intruders, no different from Black Death. She didn't even seem to realize that her mistress was dead on the floor. She took a few steps, then gathered herself for a spring. The policemen turned their guns on her, seeing a savage animal set to attack.

Etilka leaped and Tim sort of fell between her and the men.

"NO!," they couldn't fire with the boy in the way.

Mid-leap, the dog checked herself, twisting and extending her tucked legs to bring herself back to earth just short of Tim, who knelt trembling on the floor, hands at his sides.

She stood stiffly for a moment more, something processing in her brain. Then she lifted her head and extended her muzzle slightly, sniffing Tim's face. She licked at a scratch there, but it did little good, merely spreading the blood of Black Death from her muzzle to Tim's cheek.

"What the hell happened?," one young policeman asked, either of the boy or his fellow policemen.

Tim just sort of stared at him vacantly, as though that were obvious. The question rattled about in his spinning head, absurd yet demanding some kind of answer, just as the shift in the dog's behavior did.

"He killed Lady Westfield," Tim finally said, pointing numbly to the body up the hall.

He got unsteadily to his feet, using the dog's surprisingly strong shoulders to support himself. Etilka stood for it, her eyes turned towards him, soft now that she had chosen to make peace with him. Tim wondered if the truce would last, or if the dog would go back to biting him come tomorrow.

Tomorrow... how far away was that?.

Glancing at a clock hanging on the wall, he realized that it was already tomorrow.

* * *

The ownership of the dog went unquestioned. She clearly now belonged to Timothy. The question of who Tim belonged to was the looming one once again.

The police thought that the attack had probably been a robbery gone wrong, that the murder of Morna Westfield had been a side effect of that. Tim knew better. Morna stood between Tim and Black Death. And for that, she had paid the ultimate price.

The killer's blood was everywhere, on the floor, on the walls, all over Etilka. Plenty to try and draw a genetic match from. We'll find the man who killed your grandmother, the police assured Tim.

_No, _he thought,_ you won't._

He wondered why Black Death was so interested in him. Clearly, the man didn't want him dead. He should have been killed two times over at least, yet he still lived, not even badly wounded. He was battered and bruised, certainly, but far less damaged than seemed proper.

Etilka had suffered broken ribs in the fall, or perhaps from being punched. The blows dealt to her had been intended to kill, had fallen short only because she was a dog rather than a human. She laid her head on his knee and Tim petted her absently, gazing at the off-white walls of the room inside the police station, wondering what would become of him.

Etilka raised her head and growled a moment before the door opened. Tim recognized the form and face almost at once, and felt both relieved and slightly ashamed. Bruce stood there for a long moment, looking halfway concerned, almost angry. But when he spoke, his voice was warm and gentle, or as gentle as a man like him could manage.

"I've come to take you home."

They were the best, most wonderfully welcome words Tim had heard in his life.


	12. Deception and Diversion

The question, legally speaking, of who Tim belonged to, was still an open one. Technically speaking, he was not orphaned, his mother might yet come to claim him. Privately, Commissioner Gordon had implied to Bruce that he wouldn't want to see Tim go back to that woman. Frankly, he was surprised the boy was in as good shape, psychologically speaking, as he was.

Recounting what he'd gone through, Tim had survived the indifference and abuse of his mother, and the man she'd gotten her drugs from. Somehow, in spite of having been in the man's employ doing the police knew not what, he had avoided becoming an addict himself. He eventually killed the man, was transferred to a grandmother who cared not for him. She was then killed by a would-be thief (or possibly worse; the police had a car outside Wayne Manor to satisfy their concerns on the issue), very probably directly in front of the kid, who also witnessed her dog fight with the intruder. Not to mention having been injured himself during the exchange.

Having dealt with Bruce previously, Gordon was greatly relieved to see the man take an interest in Tim and his case. From past experience with other troubled boys who had gone Bruce's way, Gordon knew that Tim wouldn't go uncared for. Gordon suspected that Bruce was so good with these kids because he'd lost his own parents at such a critical age. It was a side of the playboy billionaire that most people simply did not see.

However, even beyond the unofficial, there was no argument to be had about who Robin belonged to. Perhaps Batman had been mentor to the first two, but this one was jealously guarded by Nightwing, who did not appreciate Batman's brusque technique when applied to Robin.

"You and Jason turned out alright, didn't you?," was Batman's gruff argument.

"Don't you get it?. He's not like us. Violence destroyed our families, who we were. But for him, it was different. It was his family who turned on him, his family who destroyed what he was," Nightwing countered "the only thing intimidation does is shut him down."

"He can't be Robin if he's afraid of getting hurt."

"Come on, Bruce. You know better than that. He's afraid of getting hurt by _you_. You've seen the beatings he's taken. Pain doesn't faze him, but you scare the cape right off him. So back off and let me try a different approach. My _own_ approach."

The power struggle between Batman and Nightwing was very much a personal one. In the field, Batman was generally the undisputed ruler. He gave the Team their missions, and Nightwing accepted that. In the Team, Nightwing answered first to Aqualad, then to Batman. And he seemed to be sort of fine with that. But Nightwing was not a follower, it wasn't in his programming. Batman, meanwhile, really wasn't much of a team player on any level.

So it was that Batman withdrew from Robin's training, watching only at a distance, observing but never commenting on Nightwing's handling of his pupil, critical but ever silent.

Nightwing also had to fend off Batgirl, who had the opposite problem.

"You treat him like he's broken," Nightwing accused her once.

"Isn't he?," Batgirl returned haughtily.

"Only if you make him that way. He's not some abused child to be babied. The more you coddle him, the less he'll be able to grow. He needs to be able to stand on his own two feet if he's going to survive, and taking on all the difficult tasks for him won't do it."

"So you'd rather use the patented Batman method: throw him in the water to see if he can swim?."

"No. But I won't let you make a coward of him. He is not a child anymore, and bemoaning the fact that childhood was cut short will only make things worse. He's got enough trouble without you teaching him that he should be afraid of every moving shadow."

"He should be."

"No. He should be aware of them, always. But never, ever afraid. Fear has no place in this world we live in. If you can't figure that out, then you can't play the game."

He and Batgirl were no longer on speaking terms.

Robin was unaware of these arguments, as they were always commenced in his absence. All three of the people involved had more sense than to fight in front of him, having managed to pry just a few horror stories of his past from him.

He may have suspected, but all he knew for sure was that Batman and Batgirl mostly faded from view and his training was conducted primarily by a boy just a few years older than he was. He didn't seem to mind. In fact, it was hard to say whether Nightwing was a brilliant teacher, or if Robin was just a tremendously attentive student.

* * *

_February 28__th__, 07:30 AM_

_Batcave_

"The world is not conquered through force, Robin," Nightwing said, standing in the shadows of a ledge far out in the batcave "but through deception and diversion."

Robin was concentrating on making it across the high wire Nightwing had set up, wobbling now and then, trying not to think about the near-infinite drop that awaited if he fell.

"Why," he gasped, it had already been a long morning "would I want... to conquer... the world?."

"Because," Nightwing suddenly flipped, landing on the wire with his hands down and feet in the air, voice effortless as though he were standing normally "when you face the enemy, you and they become the only inhabitants of a world constricted to the area around you."

He pushed off the wire, causing it to waver, only to land on it again, making it shake beneath Robin's feet. Robin yelped, wobbling precariously. Regaining his balance, he was surprised to find Nightwing not only right side up, but inches from his face.

"Boo," Robin toppled, started to fall, but Nightwing caught him and held him until he had his balance again "our conscious mind can only do so many things at once. You have to focus on the right thing."

"I was trying not to fall!," Robin protested.

"Exactly," Nightwing poked him in the shoulder and he felt the vast emptiness around them "you were afraid of the height. I hate to break it to you: but Robin has never been afraid of heights."

"I'm not. It's the piece of string between me and the ground _several hundred feet_ _down_ that's got me worried," Nightwing's eyes lit up at Robin's defensive retort.

Robin didn't realize it, but he was fast learning to defend himself against threats to things other than his life. He was learning to fight back, to hold his ground. That was good. He was wrong, but it was still good.

"Tim can be afraid of gravity," Nightwing said quietly "but Robin must defy it."

* * *

_March 1__st__, 03:00 PM_

_Wayne Manor_

Tim wasn't surprised to find the end game music and credits accompanied by yet another of Dick's lessons. Dick had won, and was clearly very smug about it. Justifiably so, Tim had to admit. Tim had lost by a substantial amount, even though Dick had thoroughly explained the game mechanics to him, revealing tips and tricks not included in the manual. Tim knew Dick had left something out. All the tips had proven useful, though Tim had anticipated each and every one to be false, to somehow backfire and cause him to lose. But they hadn't. The failure had been entirely his, not Dick's doing at all.

"Control the resources," began the lesson "and you control the world."

"Strategy games 101," Tim said, annoyed with himself.

"Strategy 101," Dick corrected.

Dick waited for that to sink in. He watched alertly while Tim's eyes unfocused, replaying the entire game in his head, seeing where he'd gone wrong, applying the lesson from the game to his reality to see if it bore any resemblance to it.

"So... what does that mean?," Tim asked "how do I control the resources in a fight?."

"The obvious resource is height advantage. You never want to be on the ground if you can avoid it. Emotions are another. Play on your opponent's feelings. Energy. Conserve it, but don't show it."

"Deception," Tim recalled from the day before "like being afraid of heights."

"Exactly. Use the minimum of effort, to make it look like you have all the energy in the world. Time factor. You can control time by knowing how fast an alarm will bring the police, by testing your opponent's strength and skill and knowing how long you can hold out, or how long it will take you to win. Pin that number down, and show every bit of confidence that gives you. Whether by overpowering your enemy or outlasting them, you win."

"But it's still possible for you to lose," Tim was quick to point out.

"Deception, Tim, deception. Pay attention, kid," Dick tapped the back of Tim's head gently.

"Deceive him into thinking you know something that you don't. Specifically: that you expect to win."

"Good boy."

* * *

_March 2__nd__, 08:30 PM_

_Batcave_

"The unexpected," Nightwing said, deflecting a blow from Robin's staff "is a powerful ally."

"Ally?," Robin asked, allowing himself to be thrown back and starting to circle.

"People fear what they don't know, what they don't understand, and what they don't expect. As Robin, you must be the Unknown. How you choose to go about that is your own business."

"How so?," Robin wanted to know.

"Batman favors silence, and the unexpected sound within. The unseen and unheard," Nightwing explained "when I was Robin, I used the opposite. Robin was heard, glimpsed. He talked. And cackled. That was most unexpected by those who expected to be fighting Batman, the Dark Knight, embodying darkness and silence itself. Bright colors and a biting sense of humor. Silence and words. Both are great weapons, but they must be used properly."

Robin didn't ask this time, but his baffled look encouraged Nightwing to continue. Before that, he turned to block another attack from Robin, then went on.

"Sixty percent of how people perceive us is how we look. Thirty percent how we sound. Only ten percent," he blocked another rush "is what we say."

Robin closed with him for a moment, they were inches apart. Robin had already learned to watch his adversary's eyes instead of their body, letting the eyes tell him all he needed to know.

"The words you use or don't have little effect. It's how and when you say them," he pushed Robin back so hard that the boy lost his balance and fell on his back "or don't say them."

"But what makes it an ally?," Robin asked, flipping back to his feet, still holding his staff.

"Anticipation of attack, of an unknown threat, that causes a drain on resources."

"Emotions. Energy."

"Exactly. Play that card for everything it's worth before the fight even starts. Unbalance your opponent, deceive, distract, confuse and frighten... then strike," he lashed out with one foot, neatly sweeping Robin's legs from under him "achieve mastery over your opponent's attention, and the battle is yours."

He held out a hand and helped Robin to his feet.

* * *

_March 3__rd__, 03:00 PM_

_Wayne Manor_

Barbara was only here begrudgingly. Because she was curious. It wasn't at all because she was trying to smooth things over with Dick. No, not until he did that first. It was his fault she was mad at him. They were sitting at the coffee table in the living room preparing to play three-handed spades.

Dick passed the deck to Tim.

"Count 'em," he instructed.

Tim took the deck and started to count, then flipped the cards over. He sorted them into suits and laid them out in descending order of number until he had the complete fifty-two cards lying face up on the table. He studied them, noted the bent seven of clubs which had been mangled in a rough game of Spoons (or was it Done?. Barbara couldn't remember. But she did recall herself and Wally rolling on the floor, grabbing for the card while everyone else looked on). Tim returned the deck to Dick.

When he had dealt all the cards, Dick reached into his left sleeve with his right hand, produced another card and laid it in the middle of the table.

"What's that card?," Tim asked.

"The two of clubs," Dick replied, casually dismissing the extra card on the table.

Tim flipped it over. It was the two of clubs. Baffled, he counted the cards in each pile. It was the two of clubs. In all, including the discarded club, there were fifty-two cards.

"People see what they expect to see," Dick said "you expected me to pull a card out of the pile, or my sleeve. Letting me know you'd seen the marked seven limited my options to pulling an extra card out of my sleeve. You were so sure I was going to do the trick that you saw me do it."

"What?," Barbara demanded, but Tim was thinking.

"You palmed it while you were dealing and pretended to pull it out of your sleeve."

"It's not what people don't see that's the trick to illusion; it's what they choose not to see," Dick nodded approvingly.

"Like the soap bubbles. They want to believe something is true."

"The evidence is in the two," Dick said, gesturing to it.

"How did you know it was the two of clubs?," Barbara wanted to know "if it's not marked," she added hastily, having learned something of magic tricks from Dick.

He wasn't a magician, but a circus performer. Having learned illusion from his "coworkers" and later Batman himself, Dick had gotten to be pretty damned clever at making the ordinary, every day tricks look fabulous and outstanding. The real trick with him was that he could perform a simple card illusion and have you believing you'd just seen David Copperfield vanishing the Statue of Liberty.

Time and again he'd explained to her that it was all in the delivery. It was every move you made, how and when you made it. Every word you said, how and when you said it. Batman might be the better illusionist, but Nightwing was the showman, and so his tricks were what really sold. Batman seldom, if ever, did any card tricks.

Dick waved a hand to the two of clubs, an act that itself told her the two was unmarked. If it had been, Dick would have picked it up, and maybe switched it for another. Barbara examined the card. For all intents and purposes, it seemed to be an ordinary two of clubs.

"How?," she asked again, but Dick just grinned impishly and suggested that they make their bids.

* * *

_March 4__th__, 09:00 PM_

_Batcave_

"An ordinary person with no equipment or special abilities cannot turn invisible. Nor can he fly," the statement seemed obvious, but Robin knew meaning was hidden in there, something unseen.

There always was with Nightwing. They'd actually gone out hunting for criminals twice now, short trips both times, Nightwing giving steady narration and explanation throughout, much to the ire of the would-be criminals he was flattening.

"And tools can only carry you so far," Nightwing continued, holding up a smoke pellet "sometimes equipment fails," he threw it down and nothing happened, it just sat there on the floor "either because it fails to impress your enemy, or because the mechanism jammed," a puff of smoke blew out suddenly, and Nightwing was all at once on the other side of Robin.

Robin ducked just in time to avoid being hit. Nightwing slipped effortlessly away into the darkness.

"Silence. Sound. Timing. You can't ignore gravity, but your enemy must believe you capable of controlling it. Physics, that's what it all comes to. If you can convince your opponent that you can change, even defy, the laws of physics, you're halfway home already."

Robin turned towards the sound of Nightwing's voice, and realized his mistake a second later when a carefully placed knee interacted with his spine and dropped him to the floor, then pinned him there.

"You assume too much, Robin," Nightwing very nearly hissed in his ear.

"But I was tracking your movement with sound," Robin protested, albeit weakly as it was abundantly clear to him that he'd gone wrong somewhere.

"You assume you'll get up in the morning, that gravity will keep you rooted to earth, that a door will open because you turned the handle. Because it's always been that way, for as long as you can recall. From that experience you make other, more dangerous assumptions. What you hear, what you see, what you feel... any one of them may be a lie, a false assumption on your part."

"So what do I do?. Go around afraid I'll suddenly float off into space?."

"No. That would be stupid. But if it does happen, know better than to be surprised. We use science to simulate magic which we cannot perform. But don't let science become your idol."

Robin felt like there were several different lessons coming at him all at once, each with hidden meaning which he would be able to decipher only with time.

"Your enemies assume things too. Figure out what they assume is real, play on it, or destroy it. Confusion is among your greatest weapons. For what is less expected than a creature of order, of reason, to go about causing chaos?."

"Like the Joker?," Robin guessed.

Nightwing didn't answer. Robin felt Nightwing's mood shift as he got off Robin's back and let him up. He was quiet, and clearly didn't want to discuss the Joker with Robin. At least, not right now.

* * *

_March 7__th__, 07:30 PM_

_Wayne Manor_

The days were undeniably getting warmer. Already there had been several days in a row where it was above freezing, though the nights stubbornly clung to degrees in the twenties, March sixth being marked by twelve degrees Fahrenheit, which was far from the record for the date, but still upset many Gotham citizens. It was too cold, they said. There must be something unnatural causing it.

While this was a distinct possibility, the reality was that it was just cold. This was impressed upon the public when the temperatures began to rise, leaving the days rather soggy as the snow and ice which had been the stranglehold of winter began to melt into heavy puddles on sidewalks and streets, in yards and alleyways. Nobody liked the war between winter and spring, which was marked by cold and wet.

The Westfield Murder had already been nearly forgotten. Though it had gained significant media attention, by the end of the week it was clear that nothing interesting would come of continuing to talk about it. Nobody had any comments. They couldn't get to Tim, and none of Morna's friends were talking. The Westfield fortune hung uncertainly in the air, nobody was quite sure where it was supposed to go, but everyone agreed that it must go somewhere.

The police car which had been stationed outside the manor was gone. The police had determined that nobody was coming after Tim, and so they relaxed. Tim hadn't explained what really happened. He hadn't been able to. He was still too afraid of the truth. That Black Death didn't actually want him dead. He was afraid that Bruce or Dick would know why, and that they would kick him out as though he were a carrier of disease. His unease had not gone unnoticed, but had remained untreated. It was generally agreed by all that Tim would speak when he was ready, and not before.

Tim had made rapid progress in his training, having already learned many basic survival skills. He was quick to pick things up, to recognize patterns. He thought things through so carefully, you could almost hear the wheels turning in his head when he was thinking. Bruce hadn't done more than grunt when Dick talked about Tim's progress, but he was rather impressed himself.

On this particular evening, rain was drumming on the roof, slowly turning to ice as the temperature dropped, forming icicles on the eaves. Bruce was watching the news, Dick and Tim were pretending to ignore the television while playing a board game which neither of them were especially invested in.

Dick was tired from teaching and Tim was tired from learning. So the two of them had silently agreed that today they'd just sit around and play monopoly. The trouble with monopoly is that it is an interminably long game, and very little exciting happens. Bruce wasn't much interested in the local news either. The weather prohibited much activity, even on the part of criminals. Everybody local was hiding in a hole, plotting away for the future. Even Black Death had gone to ground.

A lackluster reporter was talking about a traffic jam near the court house, someone's car had frozen up in the middle of the street and cars had been piling up ever since as commuters tried to rush home from work. This report could have been made any day. There was always a traffic jam.

The doorbell rang, a hollow, unwelcome sound intruding upon the dreary evening. Tim didn't know what it was at first and looked around suspiciously. Then he saw Alfred making his slow, regal way to the front door and settled. Boredom begat curiosity and the three in the living room rose hesitatingly as one and sort of casually drifted towards the door.

A bedraggled woman with stringy and disheveled dark hair stood in the doorway, pale as a ghost, clutching a shawl around her shoulders, hunched and shivering with cold, her eyes darted about wildly, seeking, seeking, seeking...

She took a staggering step forward, bringing her face into the light of the house. A gasp escaped from Tim as recognition overcame him.

"Mother," at sound of her title, she turned to gaze at him out of glassy eyes.

Suddenly she lurched, and would have fallen had Tim not at once darted forward and caught her, easing her to the floor where he then held her. She was shivering violently. She leaned into him and he felt something warm on one hand, pulled it away to find it soaked in blood. She was bleeding.

"Good lord," Alfred commented, his usual calm collected demeanor temporarily circumvented.

She was a tiny, frail thing, looking for the moment little older than Tim, her son. She held to his arm, shivering, moaning and weeping, unable to speak. The others noted that a sort of calm, resigned look had come to Tim, as though this was neither unusual nor alarming, but merely something which required immediate attention, something he must deal with.


	13. Sins of the Mother

A few minutes later, Tim's mother had been transferred to the living room, where Bruce was looking at her wounds. He'd called for an ambulance, but was doing his best to administer first aid before it got there. When it came to ambulance, police and fire services, Wayne Manor was a long way from Gotham. In the past, that had always been a good thing.

Tim still held his mother, or rather sat while she clung to him, as a child holds to a favorite stuffed animal, as though he was her tie to existence and, if she let go, she might die.

Blood came from a wound near her hairline, a gash down her right arm, and a slash across her abdomen. This last was what most concerned Bruce, for it was bleeding freely.

"Your father," everyone jumped slightly when she spoke, nobody had expected her to "he's looking for you, Timmy. He's come to find you."

Her voice was rough, trembling, an uneven combination of cynical old woman and frightened child.

"What would he want with me?," Tim's voice stung of bitterness "he was never around, not in thirteen years. Why would he want to find me now?."

"We were hiding from him, Timmy. Hiding from the monster," she sounded vague, distant, but didn't stop "I know I always said otherwise, said we could have him back with enough money. But I lied, baby. I lied because I was a-afraid. I thought y-you'd leave me, if you knew... the truth."

"What truth?," Tim demanded, though his voice was coaxing.

"You're an heir, an heir to an empire. A tower of babel."

Clearly, the words had no more meaning for Tim than anyone else.

"An empire, Timmy. Of evil. Of wrong. Of falsehoods."

"I don't understand," Tim said quietly.

A soft smile graced the gaunt face and she looked up at Tim, her eyes at once showing the love and spite she felt for this offspring of hers, this son she bore which had never truly been hers to hold. He had belonged, his whole life, to someone else. But now, she finally suspected, it was not his father to whom his heart pledged eternal servitude. That thought gave her courage to speak again.

"Your father never loved me. I pretended, to my mother and to myself, that he did. But he didn't. He had eyes only for what I could provide him with."

"A child," Tim said when she paused.

"A child," she agreed, then went on "I was the daughter of the then Great Lady Drake," here her voice grew both proud and bitter "royalty in a country without royals. As close to power as he would ever be able to come. My mother was politically active in those days, in addition to being rich."

"He wanted status," Bruce guessed.

"No. He wanted to _sire_," she spoke the word as though the idea behind it was a kind of blasphemy "I knew he would leave me just as soon as I offered him a suitable heir. He would take the baby and go. And I would be alone. The first time I got pregnant, I had an abortion. He found out, I don't know how. My second pregnancy began without my consent," a nice way of saying she'd been raped.

Tim felt a shudder of revulsion run down his spine. So this was what he was born of, this was where he'd come from. He wished he didn't have to know this, but he realized that, for some reason, it was vitally important that he hear and understand his origin story.

"Do not think me a victim," she spat, seeing a look of veiled sympathy in Alfred's eyes "I knew what I was doing. He told me at the start how it was going to be. I was the vessel through which he would attain power. That was all. But I didn't want to believe it. I told myself he would change, that I could make him love me. I was in love with the idea of having a bad man for my own," she laughed humorlessly "in my own way, I too quested for power. Power over _him_. I suppose everyone does, one way or the other. Power... there's so much allure in that one word," she paused thoughtfully.

Tim recalled Lady Westfield, a cold woman who had always been searching for more money. Her first and second marriages had provided her with enough wealth to buy a small country, yet she had continued to hunt. She'd been trying to bring Bruce into her web when she had died. Of her lust had his own mother been born. Conquest. Was that always the name of the game?.

"I knew I could not kill another unborn child in the name of the man I had allowed myself to think I loved, and forced myself to believe loved me, in spite of evidence to the contrary," Tim had never heard his mother speak so well, she must be clear of drugs at the moment "And so I ran. I was ashamed, and so told my mother I was running away _with_ my man, instead of away _from_ him," she took a shuddering breath and plunged on "I ran. Drugs were my truest escape. They always had been. My mother introduced me to them, you know."

_And so you tried to pass them on to me,_ Tim thought darkly, _spread the disease. Continue to deny reality because you thought it was too painful. Well guess what, Mother: I lived with my reality. Every damn day. And I'm still here. What does that tell you?._

He didn't like thinking such cold thoughts. They reminded him of his grandmother, now dead and gone yet in some way continuing to live through his thoughts, feelings and memories. A hideous thing to realize you were the composition of people who were already dead and gone. Everyone was Frankenstein's monster in that.

"I hated you. Oh God, how I hated you," she went on, unmindful of the tears beginning to stream down her face "I wanted to kill you. You were the perfect heir. Alive and healthy in spite of what I could do, even down to being a boy, that most critical requirement for the throne of holocaust."

Holocaust. What did that word choice mean?. Tim's mother was either speaking in riddles or through the pain of her wounds, still bleeding. Or perhaps through a hurt deeper still, down in her soul.

"I wanted you to die," she admitted, and here her voice cracked "sometimes I would leave, be gone for days, hoping you'd die. But there you were, still alive, and I couldn't kill you myself, not when your father's eyes kept staring back at me."

Tim looked sharply away, swallowing a lump which had grown in his throat. Through all of this, Bruce, Alfred and Dick remained utterly silent, absorbing the information, but asking no questions, doing nothing to interrupt or guide the telling of the story.

"Why did you have to be so damned resilient?," she almost screamed, then her voice dropped again, becoming resigned and weary "I couldn't kill you," she repeated "and you weren't a girl, I couldn't offer you up to Bryce for drug money. I couldn't get rid of you, or kill you. I actually dared to love you. And, damn you, you loved me back. A hundred times I tried to kill you, but each time you gave me that one thing I'd always wanted from your bastard of a father. You just looked at me, and I couldn't."

Tim's hand had gone unconsciously to a scar at the side of his neck, product he now knew, of one of his mother's failed attempts at ending his life.

"So what did he need a son for?," Tim asked when he managed to locate his voice.

"To continue the line. To rule the line of the ages," she seemed to be quoting "to bring about the end of what had been for a thousand years."

"He wanted me to rule the world?," Tim guessed.

"He wanted you to _destroy_ it."

Realization dawned, cold as the hail outside, icy and acid, leaving a bad taste in the mouth and uncontrollable shaking with the body. Tim now knew, with sick certainty, who his father was.

"He killed Lady Westfield," it wasn't a question "trying to get at me. That's how he found me. I killed Marko, became newsworthy, and he knew where I was."

Tim's mother nodded, but did not speak.

"Why?. For what possible purpose?," Tim burst out "I don't understand any of this."

"His reasons were his own, he never shared them with me."

She fell silent as the sounds of sirens outside heralded the arrival of the ambulance. Tim knew that it would not save her. His mother was already dead. Physically, her heart beat and she breathed. But not for much longer. If her wounds didn't kill her, she would finish the job herself. She had nowhere else to hide, and no more energy to run. Her life was over, had been from the moment she had permitted Black Death to make use of her body and soul.

"I don't ask for forgiveness," she whispered, her voice barely audible "I know you can't give me that."

He looked down at her, a softness coming to his eyes. He fought to speak, it took several tries. He finally settled for quoting one of his books

"'How can I hate she who bore me?,'" he waited for her to recognize it, then added in his own words "we all have our dark side, our secrets. We have our private grief and shame. To withhold forgiveness would only add to the burdens of life. I can't carry that. I won't."

"You would forgive me, even knowing..."

"Even so."

* * *

"I always thought that kid knew more than he was letting on. But I didn't expect that," this comment was made by Dick, after the ambulance had gone.

Tim hadn't gone with it, he did not belong with his mother. Instead, he had retreated to his bedroom. Behind the closed door, Etilka lay in wait, growling at anyone who came near it. It was clear that he did not intend to come out for some time, nor was Etilka going to allow anyone to come in after him.

It was a lot to process. Not only was Tim the son of Black Death, or _a_ Black Death anyway, there had been a plan for him made by that sire, a plan his mother had deluded herself into thinking didn't exist and then run away from when she couldn't deny it any longer.

It left more questions than answers. What was the purpose, what was Black Death trying to accomplish?. How could there be many of them, or any kind of plan, when their single objective seemed to be to kill people in as violent a way as was possible?.

Why did they need Tim?. They were mere humans, as was Tim's mother. No special powers, no hidden abilities, and Tim seemed ordinary enough. He had no monetary or political power, his mother had made sure of that when she severed her connection to Lady Westfield.

"Why wouldn't he tell us?," Dick wondered aloud, not expecting an answer.

"To protect himself," Bruce said "or to protect us."

"From what?."

"Black Death is hunting him," Bruce replied evenly "and killing anyone who gets in the way. Keeping that knowledge from us prevented us from trying to get in the way, or getting rid of him to protect ourselves."

"He should know better," Dick snorted "we don't kick people out when the weather gets a little rough."

"Why," Bruce drew the word out for a long time, then went on "would he know that?."

Dick opened his mouth to respond, but then closed it. It was true. Tim's experiences with people told him that they would only tolerate him so long as he provided a service, or was amusing or at the very least convenient. People cared about him only as much as they wanted to, as was easy for them to, and then they cast him aside like an old dish rag when they didn't need him anymore.

There was no reason, none at all, for him to think Bruce or Dick were any different.

"You said it yourself," Bruce told him "he's not like us. Our families were taken from us, his threw him away when they were done with him."

"How do we teach him we're not like that?," Dick asked.

It was the first time he'd asked Bruce's advice on how to handle Tim's education. Bruce was silent for a time, as though considering how best to word his answer.

"You can't make someone believe something," he said at last "all you can do is show them. The truth, they must discover for themselves. There's nothing you can say to make that happen."

Dick had sort of known the answer, but he didn't like it.

So long as he lacked faith in the people around him, Tim could not ever join the Team, which was the future Dick had always assumed would be his. _Assumed_. Hadn't he just recently been teaching Tim that assumptions would get you killed?. And hadn't he been telling Bruce and Barbara that Tim wasn't like the rest of them?. So why assume his future would look like theirs?. The logic was flawed.

"He doesn't expect anyone to rescue him, or to fix his problems. That's a good thing," Bruce said.

"Only to a certain degree. Beyond that, it will get him killed," Dick replied.

The discussion of how to be a team player was always a heated one between them. Bruce was a steady loner by nature, only his intellect informed him that teams were sometimes necessary. Dick, on the other hand, was gregarious by nature, his training had made him secretive and standoffish.

* * *

The effect the new information had on Tim perhaps cannot be properly understood by anyone who has not been so wholly unloved and discarded as he was. His whole life, he'd had the feeling he was worthless. He now knew it was because his mother feared what he would become, and hated that she could not fully possess him for her own.

"_I ask for love/I can possess"_ he didn't recall where he'd heard that, but it rang in his ears over and over as he replayed all that his mother had told him.

His grandmother had said that it was not in her makeup to love and care for him, because she was not his mother. That implied that the line of blood played a large role in a person's value. That she did not value him, and that his mother had time and again wished him dead told him that he had no worth.

Yet there was a person out there, however demented, who had gone to great pains to see that he came into being and put in a huge amount of effort to find him and, yes, possess him as one would own a toy or trinket. Still, it made him a thing of value, of worth.

Dick had said that Tim had value in his eyes, that they were friends. But words are unable to equal actions. Black Death, his father, was willing to kill to have him.

He couldn't help but wonder, if he was a prize to be had, shouldn't he go to the one willing to pay the highest price for him?. Clearly, Black Death had offered the highest bid of anyone, offering up blood, the source of human life. Was there a higher price?. Tim couldn't think of any.

While he was thinking of how nice it was to be wanted, he was also ruthlessly shoving aside that part of him that screamed that this was wrong. That part of him which knew right from wrong, a part he had never ignored but often failed to follow the advice of, now that voice fell onto deaf ears.

It was because a craving, a desperate want and powerful need had been so long unsatisfied that he'd hardly even known it was there, but now the hunger had been touched, had awoken him to the desire to belong, to be not only needed, but wanted as well.

As Dick had pointed out, Robin lived a thankless existence, with most people either hating him or fearing him, many wanting him dead or at the very least stopped. What was the value in that?.

If there was anything his mother and grandmother had impressed upon him, it was the importance of self-satisfaction. Could he really get that by being beat up by thugs in the dead of night?.

Or was he meant for something else?. Something perhaps... _greater_?.

He shoved the news reports of Black Death out of mind, and began to turn over the idea that maybe Black Death wasn't a monster, but merely misunderstood.

The damage which parents can do to their children knows no bounds. Up to now, no one had seen the truest scars left upon Tim by his mother, because those were not on the surface. They did not show on his body, nor in the words spoken by his tongue, but in his thought processes, that part of his being which was exclusively his, invisible to all outside his head.

Unbidden, he was reminded of one of the lessons Nightwing had tried to impress upon him. It hadn't seemed relevant to being Robin, but Tim had dutifully stored the information away for later analysis:

"The things you hear, see, smell, taste and touch," Nightwing had said "go through your brain and come out of your mouth in the form of words."

Another way of saying: be careful what you expose yourself to, because it will change you, whether you want it to or not.

_It's not my fault, _he thought, _my mother did this. And is it really so bad, what little I ask?._

The line from the song he couldn't quite recall rang in his head, playing like an accusatory dirge, endlessly repeating those four words: _I ask for love, I ask for love, I ask for love..._

Slowly filtering out the second part of the line, avoiding the part his mind didn't like. In this, Tim was little different from any other human being. Nightwing had warned him against this, told him more than once that people see what they want to see, and therefor what they see may not, in fact, be real.

But Tim closed his eyes, and was willfully blind.


	14. Slaying the Black Bird

_March 12__th__, 10:30 PM_

_Gotham_

The shift in Robin's behavior wasn't noticeable at first. A single choice doesn't change your base personality. At least, not all at once. He didn't set out to change his values, didn't all at once decide that strangers were for trampling over like so many weeds. No, that's not what happened. Robin did not wake up one morning and say "yes, I think I'll kill some people".

It started only with a sort of begrudging admiration for the skill with which his father dispatched his victims. An appreciation for the precision with which his father conducted his affairs. It started with his use of language, in his head. Prey instead of Victim, Signature instead of Blood Stain, Father instead of Black Death. Corruption comes from within, and it was happening to Robin, though he didn't realize it.

As he thought about how nobody had cared about him in the past, Robin began to think back with bitterness. He began to believe he'd deserved better. Whether or not this was true is not the point. But the road which begins with "I deserve better" can be a dark one. The moment you believe that the world owes you something is the moment you begin to lose sight of what really matters, what's really happening around you, and who really cares about you.

Nightwing's constant lessons were becoming irritating. He saw absolutely everything as an opportunity to learn, or to reaffirm a lesson already taken in. To him, every plant, every animal, every building, every piece of ice, everything was a study in strategy.

Sometimes Robin just wanted to shake him and say "it's a piece of ice. It's just a piece of freaking ice!". But he didn't. He was biding his time. He didn't know what he was waiting for, some kind of sign, some sort of indication for where he should go from here.

Meanwhile, Nightwing had noticed a distance had suddenly sprung up between them. Desperate that they should not grow apart as he and Batman had, Nightwing decided to give Robin a little freedom, and some time to work on his own, with Nightwing serving as silent backup.

He was wounded that he and Robin seemed to be losing whatever it was they'd had right at the start. He hoped it was about Robin's mother, who had died two days prior. He hoped it was grief, or perhaps confusion or anger about that. Hoped it had nothing to do with himself, and that Robin would work his way through it and they could still be friends.

Nightwing had always been exceptionally aware of people. Perhaps it was innate, but more likely it stemmed from having spent his childhood learning how to read an audience and please them. He'd learned to take an impersonal look at people from a distance, and to guess what they would do given their circumstances. He'd learned just what would thrill one audience, and turn off another completely. You had to figure out if an audience needed to be alarmed or amused in order to be amazed.

Keenly, he felt Robin drawing away from him, and towards the father he didn't know. Nightwing didn't know why, or what to do about it, and so chose to convince himself he was being paranoid. Robin wasn't a bad kid, he wasn't capable of doing anything terribly wrong. It was a lie, and Nightwing knew it, but forced himself to swallow it anyway because the alternative was simply too upsetting.

It was a potentially fatal mistake.

Though neither Nightwing nor Batman could find a pattern to Black Death's killings, they had measured out an amount of territory the killer covered, territory he never seemed to stray far from. It seemed that Black Death must be staying in that area, living there in addition to hunting there, but they could find no evidence to support that theory.

This was because there was a flaw in it, generated by a lack of information. Information that Robin possessed. He believed he was detecting a pattern, and wanted to see if he was correct. He didn't tell Nightwing, partially because he wanted to prove himself right beforehand, but mostly because he didn't want Nightwing to try and prevent him from investigating.

He knew Nightwing didn't want him coming close to Black Death, for obvious reasons. Knowing that Black Death was his father had to impact him in some way, a way that might well get him killed. Or, far worse, cause him to turn rogue.

Robin had a good excuse ready for when Nightwing inevitably realized they were trespassing in Black Death's hunting grounds. Robin was headed to his old home, visiting spots where he used to hang out. Nightwing didn't ask him why. His own past had a hold over him he preferred not to discuss, just as Batman's had bound the Dark Knight. It was not unreasonable for Robin to be exploring the attachment he himself had to his own past. If that meant visiting old haunts, who was Nightwing to argue?.

And so came his second grave error in judgment.

Robin was careful to avoid the murder sites, lest Nightwing begin to see a pattern which did not indicate mere nostalgia on Robin's part. He didn't realize it, but that in itself created a pattern. Nightwing noticed him turning sharply from alleys where Black Death had made killings, avoiding the small park where several people had died. But he assumed that it was an aversion to the killing sites themselves, not what Robin feared they might imply.

"This was my mother's favorite street corner," Robin said at one point, perching on the edge of a rooftop and looking down "she said the people who come this way are rich amateurs," he quoted her "'paying much and asking little.'"

Nightwing, for his part, didn't especially want to hear about it, so he said nothing. If Robin needed to say such things, that was fine, but Nightwing wasn't about to encourage him.

"She brought one back to our apartment while I was there once," Robin said, carefully avoiding the term 'customer' "they were all over the place, until she eventually pinned him on my bed. I was under it at the time."

_That must have been awkward,_ Nightwing thought, using his own sense of humor to shield himself from the mental image of a child under a bed while his mother had sex on top of it with a strange man.

They moved on, Nightwing casting backward glances at the street corner. He sensed he was being led somewhere, that Robin was taking him to a place he did not want to go. Yet, for the sake of his friend, he went anyway, hearing things he didn't want to hear and seeing things he didn't want to see.

He did this for Robin. His friend. His brother.

And all the time Robin was unaware of it. They came to a small, dirty-looking restaurant. Or, rather, to the alleyway behind it. Robin stared down for a long time, Nightwing chose to look skyward. He didn't want to know what it looked like, or what had happened there once.

"She used to leave me here sometimes," Robin said quietly "when she had to take them back to our apartment. She said she preferred them unattractive. Some, she said, were satisfied just to look at her. Just seeing a woman, she said, was enough for them."

Nightwing remained silent, continued to look at the stars, which were hidden by the lights of the city, and also by dark clouds. He closed his eyes and felt the wind on his face. There was rain in the air, he could almost taste it. But he doubted if it would rain tonight. Perhaps tomorrow.

He breathed out, noticed his breath frost in the air. Even if it did storm tonight, it would be more like hail.

At long last, he gave in and looked down at the alley. It looked just like any other. But he remembered being here the night before, with Batman. A body had been lying across the back steps of the filthy little restaurant. It was the first murder scene they'd come to in all Robin's meanderings.

The wind picked up, sending ominous whisperings among the buildings and streets. A distant rumble bespoke of the storm to come, which had already arrived in another part of Gotham. Nightwing turned to face the source of the rumble, and could see the rain falling miles off, a black curtain drawn across the world, melding earth and sky into a twisting ball of darkness.

He noticed that Robin had already moved off. He looked towards the storm, suddenly wishing it were closer, that it would rain or hail or whatever right here and now. The weather had mastery over all, even in a city such as this. Nightwing wanted to go home. Right now.

He didn't know what was sending his nerves crawling over one another in seemingly frantic attempts to escape, but he didn't like it. That sixth sense all who wore masks eventually acquired was telling him that this was no night for him to be out in the open. There was something out there, something hunting him in the night, something he did not want to fight.

He'd beaten Black Death once, he reminded himself.

_That was a different Black Death,_ his mind informed him coldly, _one with nothing to gain by fighting._

His eyes flickered to Robin, who was scampering on ahead. He seemed in a sort of relaxed hurry, like a wolf who has caught the scent of its favored prey. Nightwing hesitated to follow. Every part of him felt as though he were walking into a trap.

A trap laid out by whom?. Not Robin, of course not. Black Death?. That hardly seemed his style. And why would Robin be so eager to spring it?. Didn't he feel the same unease that Nightwing did?. Couldn't he feel the threat in the air?.

Nightwing couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so indecisive, so uneasy. Scratch that. He did remember. It had been a night almost like this one, a night he wished he could forget.

_Call it what it is, _he admonished himself, _fear. You were afraid then, and you're afraid now. Admit it!._

He shook his head fiercely, suddenly angry with himself, and hurried after Robin. They traveled in silence, Nightwing's grim and Robin's resolute. Eventually, they came to an apartment building. Building, more like an overgrown shack.

"This is where we lived," Robin said, his throat suddenly dry "before Marko moved us out."

He hopped across to the building and climbed down onto the fire escape, looking around as though he expected to find something there on the grated metal.

"I used this fire escape all the time to get in and out. Hardly ever used the front door."

_I guess you probably wouldn't want to, knowing who else had gone through before you,_ Nightwing thought.

The hyper-awareness which was almost the quality of prescience brought forth a sudden flash: the past, the present, the future, all merging into a hazy sort of reality where only death existed. Nightwing's mind called up all of the locations where Black Death had left a body.

All were in easy traveling distance of this spot. Every one was a place where either a hooker might sell herself or hide offspring which she wanted to remain unknown or a spot where this new Robin had struck. The common element was clear at last. It hit Nightwing like a lightning bolt, rooting him for an instant to where he stood, staring emptily at Robin down below him, evidently unaware of him.

Robin. The pattern was contained within the boy's own existence. It tied back to him. To him and to no other. He knew. He'd known all along. He had to have. And yet, he'd never said anything. Out of fear, perhaps?. Or was it something... darker?.

Nightwing knew now why he did not want to be here. There had been no killing here. But there would be. Black Death was either here, or would be arriving shortly. This was a prepared killing ground, just waiting to be laid open. Would it be some pedestrian, yanked into the alley shadows?. Or was Robin to be the next victim?. Nightwing looked to the head of the alley, back to Robin.

He knew neither of those guesses were correct, almost as soon as he'd thought them up. No. The victim, in this case, was to be someone else. _Him_.

It was now he who stood between Robin and Black Death, as the boy's grandmother and mother had both done. They were dead now. And Robin knew that too.

_You led me here, Robin. Why?._

The sting of betrayal came before confirmation of it, which was not long in arriving. Instinct bade Nightwing withdraw immediately, but concern for Robin prevented him from doing so. Instead of at once retreating into the darkness, he moved towards Robin, intending to tell him they were going home. But he never got there.

A flicker of shadow in front of him warned Nightwing that something was coming up behind him. He ducked and a fist swung past his head. His attacker whirled immediately, and a knee collided with his side, forcing him off the ledge.

Falling was not a great concern for Nightwing. There were a thousand ways he could stop himself from hitting the ground. He was prevented from using any of them, as his adversary jumped down after him. They met while still in the air, and Nightwing's mind switched over to defense. They tussled, spinning in the seconds it took them to hit the ground.

Nightwing had started on the bottom, but fought his way to the top. Black Death hit the top of a dumpster, and then rolled to the ground, clinging to Nightwing in an attempt to pin his smaller opponent. Nightwing thrashed like a bird caught in wire, generating noise and motion in order to disorient his enemy long enough for him to twist free.

It worked and Nightwing scrambled across the ground, putting distance between himself and his enemy before getting to his feet and turning to face them.

Black Death had already gotten up, stood like a tree, planted firmly on the ground. He seemed none the worse for wear after his fall. It seemed to Nightwing that the impact ought to have broken a bone or two, and sloshed around internal organs. But Black Death was either unhurt or masterful at concealing his wounds.

Nightwing knew he was in trouble. The alley had a dead end, and he was now cornered. The only place for him to go was up the fire escape, which was effectively blocked by Robin's presence. Nightwing also sensed there was more at stake here than his mere survival. Black Death had something to prove to Robin, and Nightwing was in the way.

Nightwing settled himself, eying the figure at the head of the alley warily, making peace with the fact that he could not escape, and so must fight to win. There would be no police sirens here, nor any Batman or Batgirl to swoop in and help him. Robin certainly wouldn't. But even as he would not step in to help Nightwing, he also would not assist Black Death. Such was not his place at this time.

The world narrowed down to just two people: Nightwing and Black Death. Nightwing shut out all outside noises and distractions. There was nothing. Nothing but the alleyway, with Death incarnate standing at the end of it. Nothing save for the shadows, and the rain in the breeze. That was all there was, all there ever had been and all there ever would be. Nothing else existed or mattered.

Nightwing had always been exceptionally good at contracting the world, at seeing only what he needed to and nothing more. Back before he'd ever become Robin, when his family was still alive, they had sometimes talked about how he would grow up and outshine them all. He was even then nearly his parents' equal. And it was not only because he'd been trained to it almost from birth. There was his ability to narrow his focus down, to see only the wire, to close down and see only the act, to be aware of absolutely nothing else until the final applause.

Then, that focus betrayed him. Like when he knew a wire would not hold his weight, Nightwing knew that this was a fight he could not win. Everything from the footing to the wind itself told him that this was a setting which favored Black Death.

Robin, perched silently overhead, was even now taking information in, learning from every move of the combatants below. He saw Nightwing settle, and also saw when Nightwing realized his situation was hopeless. Nightwing did not just roll over and die however, nor did he attempt to escape fate.

He was too wise for that, Robin saw. He did not let on to his enemy that he knew himself to be doomed, but fought back with every bit of skill at his disposal. He did not move with desperation, but with a kind of regal acceptance. He knew he could not win, but he would still give his enemy one heck of a fight. He wasn't going to give up, he was going down only when he was forced.

Robin knew it to be a kind of courage few possessed. Once people knew they couldn't win, they usually just wanted it to be over, and quickly. But not Nightwing. He would not become a beaten man, cowering before his enemy. He would go out a noble hero, a symbol of what he stood for. He would die as he had lived. He would be Nightwing.

Blood splashed onto the cold ground, brick trembled when bodies were thrown against it. The snarl of Black Death was softly echoed by the labored breathing of Nightwing. Suddenly, it was over.

Black Death stood over his fallen enemy, who lay unmoving, bleeding onto the pavement.

"Enough," Robin said, rising suddenly, instinct warning him to show no weakness to his father.

Black Death looked up at him, then down at Nightwing, who still breathed at his feet.

"If he is to die, it shall not be by your hand," Robin stated firmly "he is not yours to kill."

Black Death shifted, glaring at this boy who dared use a command tone with him. But he obeyed, first rolling Nightwing onto his back and taking away his communications device. Black Death crushed it beneath one boot, looking up at Robin defiantly, as if to say: _if he lives it shall not be my doing._

Together, Black Death and Robin melted into the night.

High above, a rumble in the sky. Pellets of ice began to fall, as though trying to hide what had happened in the alley. But the storm had come too late to save Nightwing. Or Robin.

For Robin, the days of gentle training were over. The wisdom he had learned from Nightwing was now to be tempered with savagery. Gone were the days of learning deception and diversion. Now was the time to learn about brute force and savage fury. Now was the time of Cruor.


	15. Faith in the Faithless

_March 13__th__, 12:01 AM_

_Gotham_

The issue of Black Death was not purely a Gotham problem. Batman hadn't told Nightwing, but he had discussed the matter with Aqualad, and indicated that the Team should look into it. He had his own villains to fight, and there was an issue demanding the attention of the Justice League as well.

Besides which, he didn't want Nightwing or Robin anywhere near Black Death. They were too personally involved, according to him. This was the first Aqualad had heard of a new Robin. It certainly explained why Nightwing was rarely around these days. Aqualad had merely assumed Nightwing was still upset over the death of the previous Robin, a death Nightwing blamed himself for.

It felt strange to be in Gotham. This was the city of the Caped Crusader. Vigilantes tended to claim ownership of their cities, and guarded them jealously from all comers, including other heroes who might otherwise be considered allies and friends. But Batman had left yesterday evening, the city was open and vacant for the time being. Except for Batgirl, that is.

She had joined up with the Team a few minutes before midnight, and was now settled into the bioship. Aqualad, Superboy and Miss Martian composed the rest of the Team. There were some newer members, but it seemed inappropriate to bring them along for this.

Besides, Aqualad did not feel any of them were ready to go head to head with Black Death. He wasn't even convinced that _he_ was ready for that.

A device on Batgirl's wrist went off, a feeble beeping which was loud enough to hear, but not to at once identify if you didn't know what it was. It was intended to be a subtle alarm, in case she was in public. It was a distress signal, one unique to the Bats.

"It's got to be Nightwing," Batgirl said, her tone laced with worry.

And rightly so. Nightwing seldom called for help, even in dire circumstances. He sometimes radioed for backup, but Batgirl couldn't recall a time he'd ever used the distress signal. Sometimes she got on his back about it, saying he shouldn't be so damned macho. But the truth was wholly unrelated to bravado. The simple fact of the matter was that it didn't occur to him to call for help when he was out on his own. During a chase or fight, his world was too narrow for that.

He had to be in real trouble if he was using the distress beacon.

"What the hell is he doing in Black Death's territory?," Batgirl wondered aloud, using the built-in GPS to track the location of the signal "he was out training Robin. I thought he knew better than that."

The finer points of Robin's relation to Black Death had been left unmentioned, but none of the Team had missed the part where there was a connection between the two, and that it was for the best that they stay far away from each other. It seemed reckless, and out of character for Nightwing to purposely endanger anyone for no good reason. Especially after...

Hail was coming down hard when they got to the area, but Miss Martian had no trouble piloting the bioship. Batgirl and Aqualad went on ahead on foot, proceeding with caution, knowing that whatever had caused Nightwing to transmit a distress signal might still be in the area.

They found the alley, shielded from the worst of the hail so that the ground was relatively ice-free. The evidence of the fight which had taken place was unmistakable. Everything in the alley was dented or broken, including a few bits of building wall that had crumbled. And blood coated it all, a testament to the true violence of the battle which had taken place.

At first, there was no sign of Nightwing. Then Batgirl's attention was drawn by a slight movement in the shadow of a fire escape. There they found Nightwing, who had managed to get that far, and no farther, shielding himself from the hail by the fire escape and a nearby dumpster.

He lay with his back to the wall, not quite sitting up or lying down, eyes mostly closed and breathing irregular. He bothered to open one eye and take note of Aqualad and Batgirl, then closed it again and returned his efforts to breathing, which seemed to be difficult.

In the dark, it was hard to guess how badly he was hurt, but the ragged sound of his breathing gave a significant clue. His only movement was in his breathing, and the odd shiver which seemed wholly ineffective because it was such a feeble gesture. He coughed slightly, an act which strangled a soft whimper out of him, then he settled back into the thick, almost wheezing breathing.

"Dear God, what happened to you?," Batgirl asked.

She neither expected an answer nor got one. She reached out hesitantly, half afraid that her slightest touch would shatter what was left of her friend. And he was her friend. In that moment, she forgot entirely all the times he'd driven her crazy. She remembered only his gentle side, the incredibly vulnerable self lying just beneath the surface. Her hand came to rest on his arm, and a brief shudder ran through him, though it was unclear if the touch had hurt or if it had been an attempt at shivering.

Aqualad tapped Batgirl's shoulder and spoke quietly into her ear. She nodded.

"Nightwing," her voice faltered, she had to clear her throat in order to speak loud enough to be heard "Nightwing, what happened to Robin?."

She felt a pang at even asking the question. She'd asked that same one before, when Nightwing had come dragging back from that mission by himself, returning to the Batcave rather than his own home in Blüdhaven. He had not spoken then. She had understood him. It was, perhaps, the only time she had been able to interpret his silence.

Nightwing seemed to gather himself, as though speaking would take monumental effort, the kind of effort it takes to jump a great distance, as though every muscle would have to do its part in order for him to accomplish the feat. She was sorry she'd asked.

"Gone," was all he managed to say, and that only once.

Not dead then. But gone. What did gone mean?. Batgirl didn't really want an answer to that.

Nightwing closed his eyes again, his battered body tense with pain yet seeming relaxed because he clearly hadn't the strength to be a coiled spring. He seemed in that moment more dead than alive, and as helpless as ever a living thing could be, completely unable to defend himself. But more than that, he was broken, beaten in more than body. Something had happened here, something more than a lost fight.

But Batgirl didn't ask. She couldn't. She was afraid that he would answer, and she would not like what he had to say. She really didn't want to know.

* * *

_03:00 AM_

_Batcave_

Aqualad had never been in the Batcave before. There'd never been a reason for him to enter it. If Batman had his way, there never would have been. In fact, Aqualad would never have even known Nightwing's secret identity had Batman gotten what he wanted.

But though Nightwing was cautious and kept his secrets well, he did not seem to think his name was something he needed to keep from the Team. Though told to keep his identity to himself, he had eventually let slip who he was to the senior members of the Team. Actually, it hadn't even taken him all that long. Evidently, Batgirl didn't feel the need to protect the Batcave from the Team, seeing as they already knew who she was. Either that or she was preoccupied with Nightwing.

Now she was at the computer, trying to piece the puzzle together. She'd always been good at that, but she hadn't the experience of Batman or Nightwing. And too, she was missing information. She knew it must have been Black Death who attacked Nightwing, but where he'd gone after was anybody's guess, as was what had happened to Robin.

After seeing to it that Nightwing was resting comfortably, inasmuch as that was possible, she had begun to bring the Team up to speed on the recent happenings in Gotham, at first focusing on the activity of Black Death, but finding herself more and more answering questions about Robin.

The Team was, naturally, very curious. Another Robin, so soon after the loss of the one they had known. This Robin had come out of nowhere, and it seemed to them that his existence had been a closely guarded secret, and they wanted to know why. It was also possible that they were at least a little apprehensive about the possibility of this stranger being added to their number.

Batgirl wondered if they had grilled Nightwing about her when they'd first heard of her. They had seemed to know an awful lot about her from her first day with them, and she doubted that Nightwing had just been blathering on about her without some sort of prodding. Nightwing tended not to volunteer information, especially when it came to the people he knew and cared about.

"Look, I really haven't been around him much," she said finally "he was Nightwing's project."

_Was._ What had compelled her to speak in past tense?. She had every reason to believe he was still alive, and Nightwing certainly wasn't dead. Yet there was finality in that word, as though that chapter was closed, over and done with. She wondered what that signified in the grand scheme of things.

* * *

Nightwing was not asleep as he had caused Batgirl to believe. Though his body was battered beyond his ability to get it to move, his mind was still at work, processing. Playing back. _Remembering_.

He called to mind his first moments as Robin, his final moment. And too, he remembered the advent of the second Robin, something he was initially opposed to. He and Batman had been very distant. The second Robin belonged to Batman right from the start, the two were so attached at first that Batgirl was very much left out. Nightwing didn't know it, but she always felt left out, though then more than ever before or since. Nightwing remembered too how Robin had finally won him over, how Robin had talked Nightwing into letting him join the Team. He wanted to be part of that bigger thing. His blood was not of Gotham, it was not his city as it was Batman's.

Nightwing had seen himself in the boy, and this had perhaps clouded his judgment. And Batman had trusted him to keep Robin safe. This incarnation of Robin had been willful and fiery of temper, Nightwing recalled. It was doubtful that either he or Batman could have kept Robin in Gotham for much longer. He would have taken off on his own if he hadn't been allowed onto the Team. And he had died in the way every hero expects: saving those who cannot save themselves.

His thoughts turned to the third Robin. He'd known all along that this _was_ a Robin, not some cheap knockoff. This was truly the third Robin, no more and no less. But there was also no doubt that this was a very different, and extremely dangerous, incarnation of the Boy Wonder.

Unlike his predecessors, he never made a move without forethought, even before his training began. He also showed a marked reluctance to commit. His predecessors chose to do something and threw themselves wholeheartedly into it. They flung themselves off buildings with gleeful abandon, charged into battle without once considering the size of their foe. This Robin... he liked to keep his options open. This Robin had done a very devious thing, something Nightwing himself might well be tempted to do. If he thought he could get away with it.

Nightwing knew that the Team had found him via the distress signal. He knew because he'd sent it. But it hadn't been with his own communicator. It had been with Robin's, left behind by the boy, mere inches from where Nightwing had fallen. And too, he had heard Robin put a stop to the attack.

He may have led Nightwing into the trap, but he'd also saved his life, potentially at great risk to his own. Robin was going behind enemy lines, to learn the answers they had been unable to get from other sources.

The police had been unable to identify the blood from the Westfield Murder, which meant only that this Black Death had no record, which seemed a very strange thing, considering. Batman and Nightwing had failed to find a pattern to the killings, or a reason why Black Death would want to produce offspring. Obviously, the son of Black Death was meant to do something, or inherit something. But what?. That was a question they had not come close to answering, even given what Tim's mother had told them.

Robin had not let anyone in on his plan, probably knowing that they would want to stop him. Besides, the attack, when it came, had to look real. Nightwing had to be totally surprised. Robin had set him up well, waiting for Batman to be out of the picture before acting, goading Nightwing into the choice to take him out hunting via his own subtly altered behavior.

_Deception and Diversion,_ Nightwing thought, _the kid learns fast._

But he knew it wasn't all cut and dried. Nightwing was no fool. He'd caught the glint in Robin's eyes as he watched the fight. Inevitably, Robin would choose which master he served. But he hadn't done it yet. He was in the process of making a decision. A decision which would guide the rest of his life, however long or short it might prove to be.

Nightwing knew he'd had his chance to make his sales pitch; now it was Black Death's turn.

He could not now pursue Robin. He must wait, hope, that the boy would come back. To chase him would only drive him into the arms of the enemy, or simply over the edge and out of sanity. Nightwing had done his bit, though he doubted whether he'd done it right. Now it was a matter of patience. And of faith. If this was really Robin, and Nightwing believed it was, he would return.

Nightwing wondered if he was deceiving himself. He probably was, but it was a mistake his was willing to make for the sake of Robin. The boy ought to be given a chance. He _needed_ that. If it was a mistake for Nightwing to trust him, then so be it. He was willing to live with the consequences.

* * *

_05:00 AM_

_Beneath_

There could not have been a better time to kill his father, and Robin knew it too.

Deep underneath the streets of Gotham are miles upon miles of tunnels, all of which had some purpose in their origin, though many had become abandoned. It was a world of almost complete darkness, and there were places even the rats wouldn't venture. Most particularly, the den of Black Death.

And it was a den, in every sense of the word. This was a world far different from that which Robin had come from. Here there was darkness, a world where sounds were either muted or echoing, everything was different from the world above. And yet, his own sense of direction said that they were not all that far from the surface, or from places he knew well. They were precisely underneath the apartment building where his mother had raised him.

Robin had followed his father down into the blackness with some trepidation, but he had carefully concealed any hesitation on his part. Unconsciously, he was using what Nightwing had taught him. Tim could be afraid, but Robin must not be. Robin must move quickly, decisively, with languid agility and fluid confidence.

He knew that he alone had come this close to Black Death unharmed. He walked a few paces behind his father, sensing the requirement for ritualized signals of respect. He had entered into an animalistic world, with which he was not wholly unfamiliar. Drugs and sex brought out the animal nature in people, and he had been around both enough to recognize the feral from the civilized.

This was no employee or divorcee gone postal, here was a creature which lived and breathed his mission: which appeared to be the indiscriminate eradication of mankind from the face of the planet. Yet there was a hidden motive, some piece missing from this puzzle.

He wanted Robin's cooperation. His purpose, as Robin knew it, precluded possibility of alliance. Robin wanted to know why he was needed. It was this desire for knowledge that prevented him from killing his father when he had the best chance. It was the need to discover the reason behind his origin that stayed his hand when it instinctively went for a birdarang in his belt, a blade with which he could so easily bring about his sire's abrupt and bloody demise.

From a young age, Robin had learned to use his ears to tell him what his eyes could not see. He had listened to his mother arguing, pleading, moaning and screaming through the door. He had learned to recognize in the sound of her movement any hint of threat even before she approached the door.

Now that learning was brought to bear as he listened to the shuffling movement inside the den, his father settling himself against one wall. Robin was reluctant to enter the recess, and stayed outside in the tunnel near the den entrance. Here, there was a testing period.

Simply being of Black Death's blood did not secure his life from harm, Robin knew. He must earn his place, whatever place that was, and by whatever means his father saw fit, before he would be allowed to rest in the relative safety of the den.

He sat in the tunnel, keeping his feet under him, prepared to fight or flee as need might have it, wary of his father and the noises in the dark which he could not immediately identify. A steady dripping sound came from farther down, furtive scurrying said that some manner of animal was using the source of the dripping for their water.

There were less easily recognized sounds. Subtle creaking and quite groans, which sounded neither alive nor dead, sounds belonging to inanimate objects which had seemingly come to painful awareness of their fate beneath the ground. A snore soon came from the den.

Black Death slept. So.

He was human, with the weaknesses of the living. Robin had known that intellectually, but it had never been a reality he might touch. He knew in that instant that he would kill his father. This knowledge gave no inkling as to why he would do it, or what would happen to him after. All he knew for sure was that it would happen.

But not today.

* * *

_March 15__th__, 08:30 AM_

_Batcave_

Nightwing had barely moved in two days. Batgirl began to question Alfred's assessment of his injuries and wonder if he didn't need to be dragged up the stairs so he could see a real doctor. Real doctor. Ha. After having tended to Batman's numerous and varied injuries for so many years, it didn't get much more real than Alfred. Even so, Nightwing's stillness and silence was uncharacteristic.

Batgirl hadn't had a lot of time to worry about that, seeing as she had Gotham pretty much to herself right now. This morning it had finally dawned on her that Nightwing was keeping secrets. Something had happened out there, something he had carefully evaded talking about. The evidence had seemed to speak for itself. But Batgirl realized there was a question she could ask which would force Nightwing either to lie or to reveal whatever he was keeping secret.

Nightwing wasn't lying on his back, but on his side, sort of curled up. It was a defensive position, he was ready to roll away or spring at a moment's notice. Not that it seemed likely he was capable of doing either at the moment, at least not with any great speed.

He managed to freeze her with a look. There was an expectant wariness in his gaze. She couldn't understand it for a moment. Then, suddenly, she was able to read his silence. She had come to pry information out of him, but he'd been giving it to her all along, just not saying what he was thinking.

She saw it all now, quite clearly. A set trap, and only one person in the world who could lead Nightwing into it. Nightwing had been right. This was a very different Robin, and no mere child either. Nightwing had warned her, hadn't he?. He'd said it time and again, though not in the clear words she now heard in her own mind: Robin was _dangerous_.

"Robin betrayed you," she said quietly "he's the one who led Black Death to you."

"No," Nightwing replied in a low voice "he led me to Black Death."


	16. Hunters

_March 17__th__, 08:00 PM_

_Gotham_

Two figures slipped through the shadowy near-darkness of post-sunset Gotham. They crept through the subtly descending night, stealthy as the shadows they sought for cover. One was by far the larger of the two, and was clearly the leader.

While he did keep to the blackness offered by welcoming shadows, he moved with a sort of confidence that belied his cautious behavior. Here was a creature which feared nothing, who knew that he owned the very earth upon which he walked.

The smaller moved in the halting, almost frenetic way of a bird, freezing at each sound until sure it was nothing which might cause him harm. He moved especially cautiously when nearer his companion.

They stood together for a brief instant, silhouetted in the dark, but in no way exposed because this section of the city was bare, absent of any people who might raise the alarm. In outline, they bore only the vaguest of resemblance to one another, little more similarity than was required in order to confirm that they were of the same species.

That they were sire and offspring, Black Death and Robin, was an idea one might think laughable except for one thing. Were anyone to see the hard stare of Death alongside Robin's own dark gaze, one would be hard pressed to miss their relation to one another.

Black Death raised his head, scenting the wind as though he were not human at all, but in fact some sort of primordial beast hidden beneath human skin. This, Robin had discovered, was not all that far from the reality. In a gesture of obedience, Robin mimicked the movement, not sure what was being sought, or why Black Death should use the weakest of his five senses in order to find it.

Black Death turned towards him, his breath frosting in the rising moonlight.

Winter was still waging war with summer, snapping its chill through the air like the cracking of a whip. Summer was coming on, quietly, implacably, its only weapon the relentless sun, striving to bring heat to a world frozen by winter's cold breath.

_Smell that?,_ Black Death's eyes seemed to ask, _that's the fear-scent. The fear of humanity, brought on by the darkness which they cannot understand. They have much to fear, do they not?._

Indeed. Not only was Black Death an efficient hunter and killer, he had a veritable network of escape routes Beneath. Robin knew that his father had learned those tunnels well many years before, before even beginning to search for a suitable mother for his offspring. And what a network it was. The tunnels went on for miles, crossing and crisscrossing, weaving in and out and among one another so that even a single step in the wrong direction could leave you utterly lost.

Robin survived solely by staying close to his father, never straying far, always keeping careful track by using his ears. For such a massive person, Black Death moved with remarkable stealth, so Robin really did have to pay attention to his movements.

Yet there was tension between them, constant unease. Even as Robin was of his blood, sired with purpose, Black Death was hard-pressed not to kill him. It was all Black Death existed for, to end life. And here was a target, ripe for the taking. It went against his code to let Robin live, even though it was meant to benefit his bloody cause.

And surely he was not unaware of Robin's own inclination towards ending his existence. No one so well acquainted with murder and mayhem could possibly miss the signs. Shifting away at his approach, wary glances from the corner of the eye, tensing while in his presence, the unconscious hand going to the nearest available weapon... all signs of distrust... and potential treachery.

They moved on in their silence, the darkness closing around them like a curtain. Robin knew what they were doing, but it was not in his power to prevent it. And he wasn't entirely sure he wanted to either. This was, after all, what his father had wanted him for.

_Crour._ The Latin word for spilled blood.

But that could not be all he was for, could it?. No, Black Death had chosen Robin's mother specially. She wasn't just some random woman. He had not merely raped her and gone on. He had first courted her, pursued her in the way of a lover, instilling loyalty in her whilst giving none of his own, ensuring the survival of his offspring even in his absence.

It was an animal way of thinking, Robin knew. But it was how the mind of Black Death worked. And this Black Death had also been chosen specially, Robin had learned. Not just any of his kind would do. Robin wasn't sure what about this one was special. Was he stronger?. Was he the leader?. Did Black Death, the lone killer, even _have_ a true leader?.

No, he could not betray his father now. Not if he wanted to learn the secrets of his origin.

* * *

Meanwhile, the Team was circling the city. There had been reports of Black Death all over the news, but so far none were confirmed. One dead body did not a serial killer make. And there was plenty of death to be found in Gotham. Yet now every murder, accident or suicide was marked as the work of Black Death, and the Team ran down every lead. Batgirl was especially committed.

Aqualad was uneasy about the level of anger he saw in her, fury she had directed at Robin for some unfathomable reason. Aqualad knew that she wanted to kill the boy, would if she could get her hands on him. He knew she was no killer, not in her right mind, but she'd completely flown off the handle where Robin was concerned. She had not related what Nightwing had told her, otherwise her behavior would not have seemed quite so bizarre.

But to say anything seemed a betrayal of Nightwing. That he had trusted Robin so completely showed his vulnerability, something he seldom revealed even to his closest friends. Nightwing presented a front of invincibility. It seemed inappropriate to shatter that facade. What he had told her had been said in confidence, a secret which had not so much revealed itself to her as swallowed her up and caught her in its web. Perhaps she knew Nightwing better than she thought.

Night had fallen, casting a deadly veil of fear across all of Gotham. This was the preferred time of night for Black Death. Dark, but still early, before most people returned to their abodes. This was the time of criminals, the time when the scum came creeping and crawling out of their rocks, slithering into the open, testing the waters to see if it was safe to perform their acts of villainy.

But the Team really only had eyes for one source of evil. Gotham was not theirs by right, they did not know the rhythm of the city, and so would only stumble upon criminals by purest accident. And Batgirl, of course, was consumed with the need to hunt down Robin, to be rid of him before Nightwing had recovered. She did not want the wound Robin had inflicted on Nightwing to go any deeper than it already had. And too, she was afraid of how such an encounter might go. Nightwing was the more skilled and experienced of the two for sure. But he cared for Robin, and that made him weak.

Batgirl was shielded by the sense of betrayal she felt, and the pain she suffered at what had befallen Nightwing. He was right, this was no mere child. This was something to be eradicated, like a plague.

She hadn't consciously thought about killing Robin. Only beating him up, catching him, turning him in. Focusing on her rage allowed it to build. She knew that. She knew, but ignored the fact. She didn't want to realize that she too had a dark side, just as Nightwing and, yes, Robin did. She did not want to admit to herself that she was capable of doing things out of darkest nightmares.

That some part of her was just as despicable as Black Death himself.

* * *

The hunting style of Black Death was markedly different from that of Nightwing, or even Batman. Where Nightwing was one to intentionally give his presence, if not his location, away in order to inspire unease and even fear in his opponent (allow their emotions to do the fighting for you, he'd said), Black Death wanted no such thing. He wanted to come upon his victim unawares, take them down in an instant with pure brute strength.

And where Nightwing's hunting was necessarily confined to criminals only, anything with a pulse would do for Black Death, which made his job much easier. Typically, the average human was far less alert than one knowingly committing a crime or otherwise intentionally drawing attention to himself.

The real skill came in getting it over with quickly, and getting gone before the police or any vigilantes caught on. Robin had learned a terrible secret: Black Death did not always mark his kills. Those marked and later found made up only a fraction of his kills. Those were statements, meant to draw attention. To communicate. His marked killings had of late been to get Robin's attention.

What a strategy. Using news broadcasts to get word out to others of his kind. Killing people of a certain type, or a certain distance apart from one another, a coded pattern recognizable only by those like himself. A grisly sort of carrier pigeon.

Robin sensed that tonight marked the beginning of a new message. Black Death wanted to get word out. Word about Robin, no doubt. That the heir had come to his side, and was learning his violent trade. Whatever plan they had for him was at last progressing nicely.

He'd never brought Robin along before, and perhaps this change was what tipped the boy off to the importance of what was taking place here. It hadn't taken long for Black Death to find the victim he wanted. Robin wasn't sure if it was a matter of person or place in this instance. If this was the wrong sort of location (for instance, a park instead of an alley), then Black Death would have to risk moving the body before marking it, lest he be misinterpreted by the others.

_Others._ An involuntary shudder ran down Robin's spine.

The intended victim was a young woman, blond, somewhere in her early twenties. The park was no place to be after dark, yet here she was, taking a shortcut home instead of playing it safe. Walking, it seemed laughably, for health reasons.

Black Death crouched low, shifting his weight for the brief sprint which would bring him across the open space between the brush and the girl in an instant, leaving no time for her to react to save herself. That is, unless she was more alert than she seemed.

Her legs were bare in total disregard of the chill in the air (it had been warm earlier today, it was doubtful she'd planned ahead), revealing their tone. She was a jogger. But that alone would not save her. In the darkness, startled and panicked, she would stand no chance. Not unless there was a separate identity beneath the surface, as there was behind Barbara Gordon. But no, she gave no sign of having a mask behind that pretty face. She stood absolutely no chance.

Across the park, there came the sound of laughter. A young couple were so enamored with each other that they didn't even realize it was late. A single scream would jerk them out of their love-trance, awakening them to the darkness around them. A single scream and one would grab their cell phone, be calling the police. Black Death knew it too.

He knew too how to bring about an abrupt demise. He could not prolong most of his attacks, a fact which clearly irked him. He enjoyed toying with his victims, but seldom had the chance. No matter. The message, that was what was important. He settled himself.

_I will not be this person,_ Robin thought.

Robin, a few feet behind his father, took a measured step backwards. A loud crack split through the night. Robin hadn't stepped on a tiny twig, but a rather sizable one, hit it hard with the heel of his boot. He'd done so intentionally. The woman swung towards the sound, fear lining her muscles, the thin tremble of her lips as she tried to decide if she should scream.

Black Death had been so ready that her sudden movement triggered him. He came forward in a rush, and the scream of the woman tore through the night. The laughter stopped. There were sounds of concern, people running towards the scream, thinking they might frighten off a mugger.

The woman fled blindly, but tripped in the dark and fell. She rolled over, to see what had come for her. Another woman screamed. Her companion dropped a hand into his pocket, snatching out a phone even as he jostled her away, wise enough to know Black Death was capable of killing them both.

Seeing the phone, Black Death left his intended target, meaning to run down this threat before it could expose him, ruining tonight's hunting. The intended victim lay stunned.

"Run. Run, you idiot!," Robin hissed at her.

He sort of mock-charged, inciting the flee response. She got to her feet and ran. Robin turned to track Black Death's movement. He halted far short of the young couple, seeing the call had been made. Police cars cruised around this park, for precisely this reason.

There was no time. He had to get out, and get out _now_.

Black Death turned, spotted Robin and ran towards him. Robin waited for his father to catch up. A split-second warning was all he had before his father lashed out with one arm to cuff him over the head. Robin ducked, but stumbled as he ran. Black Death overshot him, disappearing into the darkness.

Robin scrambled to his feet, heart hammering in his chest, knowing that he could be shot before being identified. With the call saying Black Death was here, the police officers would be in full-blown kill mode. That was the only way to deal with someone this dangerous, unless there were a heaping lot of them or they got a lucky wounding shot in.

As he reached the edge of the park, Robin did catch a cuff in the back of the neck, which threw him to the ground. His father had waited for him. And he was angry. Robin hoped fervently that his father believed he'd snapped the twig accidentally. Otherwise he might not live to see the morning.

* * *

Batgirl was closest to the park when the Team intercepted the call on the police band. Black Death was in the park, he'd killed someone. No, the report corrected minutes later when the police got there, the victim had escaped, as had the caller. Batgirl was already well on her way.

The park, quite near her home, was one she knew well. The radio chatter told her exactly where in the park the attack had taken place, and she knew just where the best exit was. If you were a fugitive from the law, anyway. In the soft, not-quite-frozen, mud, she found fresh tracks. Yes, they'd been here.

She reported to Aqualad, who had the Team converge on her position, in the hopes that they might find Black Death by encircling the area like a fishing net. Surely Black Death could not elude all of them, not all at once, not when they were so close.

But they were wrong. One by one, they came into view and joined Batgirl at the edge of the park, on a little knoll overlooking the nearby city, a place of the wild here in the middle of civilization.

"It was the perfect spot for an ambush," Batgirl said "I can't imagine what went wrong."

It was an important piece of information. What had caused Black Death to fail?. And, having failed, would he try again?. If so, for his victim or someone else in the park?. Or would any old victim in any place do just as well?.

It was Aqualad who found the tell tale branch. Picking up half of it, he tested its strength.

"You could not break this by accident," he commented "someone deliberately sabotaged the hunt."

_Getting sick to your stomach, Boy Wonder?._ Batgirl thought coldly.

Aqualad did not miss the dark look which briefly clouded Batgirl's face. He didn't like what he saw there. Nor was he at all comfortable with the looks Miss Martian and Superboy were acquiring by proximity. Though they had no reason to feel malice towards this strange Robin, Batgirl's own clear feelings were influencing them. Aqualad wondered if she might be justified in her hate, whatever its source. Perhaps this Robin was not to be trusted.

And yet... Nightwing had clearly trusted him. His trust was something not given lightly. That was something to consider, and very carefully.

* * *

_10:30 PM_

Robin had expected the night's hunting to be over when Black Death lead the way Beneath. Instead, he sat in boiling silence, ignoring Robin completely, before finally setting out again. He was thinking, clearly. Thinking hard. Perhaps rethinking Robin's place with him.

When he had returned to the streets to hunt, he'd left Robin behind.

Robin knew he'd compromised himself. He'd let his emotions cloud his judgment, and acted to save a single life. The life of a perfect stranger to him. He knew that Black Death's world was forever beyond him. His single instinct had been to save that young woman. It was the only thought in his head. It overrode all good sense, and self-preservation instinct. A single life spared was as nothing compared with the killing Black Death had done, and would continue to do.

A thought came to him, clear and distinct, undeniable: Black Death was willing to kill for him, but Nightwing had been willing to _die_. Of what value was a stranger's blood when compared with the soul of his brother?. What sacrifice was it to destroy the lives of others, people you neither knew nor cared about when compared with the loss of yourself, an end to your own survival?.

It was decided then. Robin would bring an end to Black Death's evil. Even if it killed him.

It was to Nightwing, not Black Death, that Robin's loyalty belonged.


	17. Brother Blood

_March 18__th__, 09:30 PM_

_Gotham_

Robin had waited for Black Death to leave before making his own way from Beneath. Even as Black Death lay snoring during the day, Robin had known he could not sneak away in safety. But now Black Death was gone, to the park no doubt, to try and deliver the message Robin had interrupted the night before. Meanwhile, Robin had a message of his own to get out.

His position no longer secure, Robin found himself needing to unload his information, tell everything he knew to someone not restricted as he was. It was not in his thoughts that he might be taken back in, not unless he had learned all about Black Death. Maybe not even then.

He knew, however, that Nightwing would recognize the risks he had taken. Assuming, of course, that Nightwing had survived that night when Black Death had left him for dead. That was a big assumption. And Robin had not forgotten Nightwing's warning about those.

But he did know that the Team was canvassing Gotham, trying to get their hands on Black Death. He knew this, because his father had told him. There were greater hunters than detectives in the police department for him to be wary of.

No matter how they felt about him, he knew they would still hear him. And he had much to say. The way Black Death communicated, the Beneath, the plan for Robin's own future... all of it must be imparted to those who were in a position to deal with such knowledge, even if that knowledge came only in pieces from a treacherous snake. They would listen.

At least, that's what he hoped.

He paused to let his eyes adjust to the lesser darkness above ground, then slipped silently through the starless night, looking for someone to give his secrets to, hoping to return before Black Death found him to be missing, knowing that if he didn't he would be killed. Black Death might see his breaking the twig as a mistake, but this was blatant disobedience and could not be tolerated.

The surest place to find a vigilante was also the absolute worst place for Robin to be. The park was where Black Death most likely was, and any heroes in the area were bound to suspect it and be hanging around in the hopes of catching him. Robin wasn't worried about that. What he was worried about was the fact that he would be dangerously close to his father, like a gazelle parading about in front of a lion.

But he would have to risk it. It was either that or blunder about the city in the vague hope of accidentally tripping over someone. And that was hardly likely.

The chill from the night before had only grown. Winter was clearly not ready to give up the stage. The sky was dark, the moon and the stars blinded by clouds. Robin cast a glance at the sky. A storm was coming, he could feel it in the air around him. The strength of the wind pushing the clouds along said it wasn't going to be a small one. Winter was going out with a bang, dragged from the earth kicking and screaming. The battle of the seasons, pale reflection of the conflict within and forever surrounding humanity. Something to think on. But not right now.

Remembering Nightwing's opinion about the high ground, Robin almost at once climbed a tree, both to get a better view of the park and to conceal himself from those below. Black Death was a thing of the ground, a heavy predator that had to rely on stalking more than anything. Robin was a small, almost frail, thing, and hopping from branch to branch was more in line with his ability.

* * *

Aqualad had taken the park for himself, so that he might forestall or even prevent Batgirl's murderous rage from coming to a head. She was no killer, and he felt doubt in his mind as to whether or not she was justified in wanting the young Robin dead.

A prickle of the skin at the back of his neck, an awareness brought about by years of using Nightwing as a sparring partner, warned him of someone not only behind him, but perched somewhere above him. At once he was on the offensive, whirling and striking out with his hydrokinesis, intending to knock his target out of the tree, not kill. He didn't miss, but a flicker of shadow in the corner of his eye told him that his stalker had escaped to another branch.

"I know where you are. Reveal yourself!," Aqualad commanded fiercely.

"Only if you stop throwing water at me," the voice was unknown, but the identity it contained was familiar; Aqualad knew with certainty that he had located the wayward Robin.

Aqualad relaxed his fighting stance enough to let the unseen person know he had acquiesced. There was a flash of red and a fluttering of cape, and a boy dressed as Robin hopped out of the upper part of the tree, to a low branch where he could be seen properly.

Aqualad noted that he did not drop to the ground. Nightwing's training showed. Never release the high ground to any but a most trusted ally and friend. And sometimes not even then. Nightwing was a marvelously cautious one beneath his reckless veneer.

"So you are the one they call Robin," Aqualad said at length, when it was apparent that the boy in the tree wasn't about to open conversation "you do not appear to be held captive."

"Who said I was a captive?," Robin asked, head tilting in the signature birdlike fashion.

_He does have a feel for the persona,_ Aqualad thought.

Aloud, he said "It was assumed that you were with Black Death. Was that not so?."

"It was... so," Robin said "but I was never his prisoner."

_So this is where Batgirl's loathing stems from. Yes, that does make sense._

"Do you know where he is now?," Aqualad asked.

"Oh, somewhere around this park, I should think," Robin replied, settling more comfortably on his branch "but that's not why I'm here, and it's doubtful you could find him tonight any more than you did last night. I can help you with that."

"Oh?," Aqualad raised a skeptical eyebrow, putting away his weapons.

"I've learned a great deal since my father took me into his confidence," so easily that name rolled off his tongue, as though the fact that his father was Black Death counted for naught.

"So," Aqualad drew the word out slowly, as though testing its weight "you have sided with your father, and chosen to betray Nightwing."

"I did not come here to argue in my own defense," Robin snapped, suddenly angry for no visible reason, getting to his feet and beginning to pace around the branches of his tree.

Aqualad slid an uneasy hand in the direction of his weapons, but didn't follow through on the impulse. He'd seen this same behavior from Nightwing, countless times. The boy was acting!. He was discouraging further questions about himself by appearing enraged.

_Does he think I cannot see through him?._

"Then why did you come here?. To join your father in the hunt?," Aqualad saw a flash of real emotion when Robin looked at him, responding to his choice of words.

But he turned away so quickly. Had it been anger?. Fear?. Sorrow?. Maybe all of them.

"I came," Robin said slowly, still faced away, as though indifferent to the fact that he was leaving himself open to attack by Aqualad (he could not have been unaware of the potential danger in turning his back to his enemy; that was impossible) "to pass on what I know before he kills me."

He turned his head towards Aqualad, yet kept his body faced away. Fury flashed in his eyes, a sort of wounded anger whose source was just beyond Aqualad's understanding.

"Does that satisfy you?," the sentence was spat like venom from the mouth of a snake.

And Aqualad saw behind the mask of aloof confidence and sort of arrogant fury. He saw now what Nightwing had in this Robin. Beneath the strong and courageous warrior, there was a frightened cub, vulnerable and deeply wounded; as though someone had pierced his very heart.

"That satisfies me," Aqualad said, using a soothing tone.

Robin sank back into a resting crouch on the branch. He half-closed his eyes and took a deep breath. It was clear he planned to tell all here and now, for fear of what might happen to him if he delayed for even a single moment. Aqualad drifted towards the undergrowth, out of sight of any who might happen by, and Robin slipped along behind him, keeping to the trees.

As he moved, he spoke in a low voice, relating all he had seen, heard and experienced with Black Death. He told of the Beneath, with its many tunnels and passages. He explained the special Code of Death used to communicate with others in the Black Death fold. He told Aqualad that Black Death did not mark all his kills, or even most of them. Many were unsolved murders, or even thought to be suicides. And too, he detailed the effort his father had gone to in order to bring him into existence, and then to obtain his allegiance.

"Why does he need you?," Aqualad asked when Robin fell silent.

"I don't know," Robin replied "isn't that a kick?. Here he is, training me and messaging his own about me, but he hasn't told me what my purpose is. Or even what his is. I mean, he's basically trying to kill the whole world. Who wants to destroy their own world?. That's stupid."

"No," Aqualad corrected gently "that is insanity."

"A whole pack of insane people, all deciding to do the same thing?. Together?. And being successful for years?," there was no mockery in Robin's voice, just flat disbelief.

Nightwing would scoff at the idea too, Aqualad thought. When presented in the way Robin had just put it, insanity seemed a poor explanation. Aqualad realized that here was something beyond his understanding or experience. It would do no good to try and apply conventional explanations.

"And what is your assessment?," Aqualad asked after a time.

"They're evil," Robin shrugged "what more do you need?,"

Aqualad noted that this question was spoken in earnest, not as a jest. But before he could answer, there was a rush of motion through the trees. Where Robin had been a moment before, Batgirl seemed to materialize. Robin had darted to the shadows on her arrival.

She did not pause to acknowledge Aqualad, but turned towards where she had seen Robin flee. She went after him in a fit of fury. Aqualad followed the rustle of branches, heard a crash and saw the brittle leafless brush shaking, heard a violent rattle. Before he could intervene, Aqualad heard a pained yelp.

Rushing forward, he saw that Batgirl had pinned Robin to the ground. His left arm was under his chest, which was pinned down by Batgirl's knee in his shoulder blade. He right was twisted behind him painfully. And yet he did not lie still, thrashing as a fox caught in a trap, sensing death in this new presence.

"Let him go!," Aqualad barked the order, knowing nothing less would get snap-obedience from Batgirl.

Reflexively, she loosened her grip, which was enough for Robin to squirm free. He disappeared into the dark, slipping away and not sticking around to see how the scene played out. He had known Batgirl's intent, felt it in her touch, and he was not about to let her finish what she'd started.

"What did you do that for!?," Batgirl was in a fit of rage alright.

She got to her feet and rounded on Aqualad, eyes snapping with blue fire.

"He was not your enemy," Aqualad said simply, calmly.

"Not... not," she seemed to choke on laughter at that statement, then spat bitterly "he betrayed Nightwing!. He could have gotten him killed!. That is an abomination," she pointed an angry finger towards where Robin had disappeared "a wolf trying to pass himself for one of us!."

"That," Aqualad corrected her ever so carefully "is a boy trying to be a hero. And he is succeeding."

Batgirl, flabbergasted, was stunned into silence for perhaps the first time in her life.

* * *

Robin's shoulder hurt where Batgirl had forced it to turn unnaturally. The pain radiated outward, down his arm and across his back to his other shoulder. He knew he could have bested her. She had attacked blindly, without forethought, without consideration for his training or even her own. Thus he could have gained the advantage. Proof lay in how easily Aqualad had distracted her to the point that Robin could escape.

She had more technical knowledge than he did, but less in-field ability. She went through the motions easily, so long as nothing distracted her from what she was doing. But she had given Robin opportunity and, unlike Nightwing not so long ago, she had not meant for him to slip away.

So it was final then. He could not go back. At the very least, Batgirl wouldn't let him. It was doubtful that Nightwing or Batman would welcome him back, especially if Batgirl would not.

_So this is it, _he thought, _now I truly am alone._

Just as he thought this, something came at him from behind. It hit him in the small of the back like a ton of bricks, the impact knocking him to the ground with such speed and force he was unable to shield himself beforehand. Instinct made him roll clear, and not a second too soon as the heel of a boot came crashing down exactly where his head had been a moment before.

Robin, bruised and a little dazed, nevertheless was quick to get his feet under him. He drifted to the deeper shadows, hiding his outline, but his assailant came on, hearing his movement, his breathing, advancing with the same terrible ease as Black Death.

But this was not Robin's father. It was a stranger to him, slightly younger than he, but stockier and more powerful. Training to be a killer made size and age difference moot points. Robin could see that, had felt it. He was baffled, not sure who this was or why they came at him with such unbridled fury. But he could recognize his father in this youth's movement. The same style of attack and defense.

"Hold still, Frater Crour," that was no child's voice, no innocence there, only pure lust for blood, for the kill it implied "and I shall make a swift end for you."

_Frater._ Robin's books had told him that was the Latin word for brother.

_Frater Cruor._ Brother Blood.

"So I am not the only son after all," Robin hissed, his new awareness giving him confidence "that is why the threat of death may hang over my head."

Unconsciously, he adopted the other boy's way of speaking. Their father's way of speaking.

"The Bringers of Death are never to be counted as fools," the boy spat "a single Crour is not enough for an entire world. But you were of most value. You were the favorite."

_And that is the source of your rage,_ Robin thought, _spite for the favorite son. An old story._

"Why was I the favorite?," Robin asked as he circled to keep distance between himself and his kin "my father didn't even know me."

"You were meant to be a creature of power. Power such as this world recognizes. Yet now you are nothing. You are not recognized in the public's eyes. Our father, great man that he is, was a fool to think you capable of creating that name for yourself only with fiscal means."

_The money. Westfield's Fortune. Money for the cause. Barrels of it._

But what need of money had indiscriminate killers?. They were already well able to conceal themselves, only one had ever been caught and he had since escaped. There was something yet missing. Something critical, which made all the difference in the world.

"Now, Frater Cruor, stand so that I might kill you."

"How big an idiot do you think I am?," now Robin had broken from the speech pattern he'd been assimilating for what seemed forever "Catch me if you can. Fight me if you dare."

He knew this boy, Brother Blood in his mind, was the better fighter by far. His only hope was to use that which Nightwing had taught him. Deceive, divert, confuse, play upon emotion. Only if he could use this training effectively would he escape with his life.

Only his training was incomplete. His one hope was that Brother Blood's training was incomplete as well. If he were as cool and powerful as Black Death, there would be no escape for the Boy Wonder.

Not this time. And, it seemed, not ever.

* * *

_March 19__th__, 02:00 AM_

_Batcave_

Batman had at last returned, mission weary but not discouraged. It had gone well, though not without difficulty. He found Nightwing in the cave, clearly recovering from injuries, but brooding a bit more than usual. He looked sullen, an expression which befit neither Dick nor Nightwing.

They didn't speak to each other, saying all that was needed by merest glance. Nightwing was concerned over Robin, and perhaps the Team as well. Though he concealed it well from everyone else, Nightwing was unable to hide from Batman his upset at having been so nearly killed. He was angry at himself for having walked right into danger, knowing the almost definite consequences of doing so.

No more than five minutes after he returned, Batman's attention was grasped by sounds from the cave entrance. The Team was returning, and they were not alone. Someone was being dragged with them, most unwillingly from the sound of things.

Shortly, Aqualad appeared, followed by Superboy and Miss Martian. Last came Batgirl, half-pushing and half-dragging Robin, her hands closed on the collar of his tunic. There was blood on the side of his face, and his breathing indicated pain and thus hinted at unseen injuries.

The rest of the Team looked almost embarrassed to be with her at this time. Batgirl halted a few feet from Batman and threw down her captive triumphantly.

Robin fell to the floor with a thud and lay gasping, it was clear he'd put up a tremendous struggle. Though for all that, Batgirl had not one mark on her to indicate he'd done anything aside from try to get away from her. The blood on his face didn't appear to originate from a wound Batgirl would have inflicted. Maybe accident... more likely someone else had attacked him and Batgirl had merely taken advantage of his weakness after the fact.

Batgirl looked defiantly from Batman to Nightwing, already having given Aqualad this look. She had refused to hear him out, and thus knew nothing of what Robin had told him.

Batman turned a questioning eye in Nightwing's direction. Nightwing looked away. There was something he'd not mentioned in his nonverbal report. There were limits to what a look could say.

"He betrayed Nightwing," Batgirl said, drawing attention back to herself "lured him into a trap. Nightwing was nearly killed."

"And he is the reason I was not," Nightwing told her in a clear, level voice "didn't you even notice?. I thought Batman trained you better," there was scorn in his voice "what kind of detective are you?."

Batgirl's eyes showed her confusion. She did not understand Nightwing's anger. Was he so blind that he still trusted Robin?. But surely that wasn't enough to... _oh_.

"It wasn't your communicator," she realized aloud, turning her eyes on Robin, who was just now sitting up "it was his. And not by accident."

"Not," Nightwing agreed quietly "by accident. And I'll thank you not to lay hands on my brother again," he shifted his gaze to Robin, who looked at him, quietly taken aback.

Robin held his brother's gaze for a long moment, searching for he knew not what. And he found it.

"I have a brother by blood," Robin's voice was little more than a croak "Half-brother. Brother Blood. And I know what Black Death had planned for me."


	18. Knowing Where You Stand

It was soon evident that Nightwing knew not only of Robin's loyalty within treachery, but also the treachery beneath the loyalty. And the choice which had to be made. Robin couldn't go around switching sides all the time. He knew where he stood with both, and must pledge himself to one or the other, or be driven away by them all. To do so, he must earn the trust which Nightwing had at first given blindly when he realized that this was, indeed, Robin.

The long and the short of it was this: Dick and Tim were brothers, but Nightwing and Robin still needed to work out where they stood with one another.

Robin knew where his allegiances lay, at least he did now. For the first time, someone had bothered to care about him when there was nothing in it for them. When doing so could have cost them their very life. Robin worried that he may have recognized that too late.

It certainly appeared to be too late in the eyes of the Team. They were not fools. They saw that there had been betrayal and deceit, even as Nightwing strove to convince them otherwise. Robin could not be trusted, and thus was not welcome in their fold.

The difficulty lay in the fact that none of them knew Black Death so well as Robin. Though realizing that the death toll was actually a code allowed Batman to go over the records and try to decipher it, he could not get inside the head of the enemy like Robin could. Robin knew the enemy intimately, and seemed to have an almost instinctive bent towards Black Death's chosen existence.

It was a connection which seemed to border on the supernatural. It was Robin's knowledge of his father that brought the Team down on Black Death time and again, never quite managing to get to him before he slipped away, but over and over preventing him from making kills, even ones not intended as messages. Robin seemed simply to _know_ when and where.

It was uncanny. And raised the Team's suspicions about him all the more. One of these times, once they were at ease with taking his direction, he might walk them into a trap.

"He won't be so subtle," Nightwing assured them "if he turns on anyone, it'll be me. And it won't be behind my back, either," they wondered how he could be so confident.

He wondered that too. Was this more willful blindness on his part?. But it didn't feel like denial. It felt... peaceful. He simply knew that Robin would not lay a trap again. Not unless and until he had a flat-out face-to-face confrontation with Nightwing. He didn't know how he knew, he just did.

In truth, Robin had no intention of doing any of those things. He knew he'd done wrong, and wanted to try and make it right. He wasn't sure exactly how, but a start would be helping the Team track down Black Death and Brother Blood.

* * *

_March 23__rd__, 07:24 PM_

_Gotham_

Sunsets came early here, though later all the time. Darkness fell, the shadows crept out of their daily hiding places and the Team was once more trying to get to Black Death before he was tipped off. Winter continued to cling to the city, encasing it once more in snow and ice.

The Team watched Robin as he intently studied the landscape. Nightwing was as yet unable to join them, though he sorely wanted to. He was wiser than to try, however. That was both a relief and a weight. That he knew he would only hinder them was the relief. The weight was that he was the only one with confidence in Robin.

His presence could easily have shifted the Team's opinion, and given Robin confidence as well. His absence made the rift between Robin and Team that much more apparent.

Robin made it a point to stay a few feet away from them, and to avoid looking at them whenever possible. It was a thing he had learned from his mother. To avoid confrontation, you should appear as submissive as possible. Don't approach, don't speak until spoken to, and never, ever look them in the eye lest it be construed as a threat. Look always down or at least away to the side, but never up.

Robin didn't know it, but this served to make the Team even more uneasy. They marked subconsciously in their minds that he was not like them. He did not move as they did, nor look or think as they did. He was something different, separate, completely apart from them. This extra thing which they had to keep around because otherwise their mission would end in failure.

It was not that they were cruel or senselessly closed minded. They had their reasons. They had seen he was untrustworthy, had felt that they all were agreed on that, and he was doing nothing to turn the tide in their minds. Betrayal is not to be taken lightly nor to be easily forgiven, no matter the reason.

Robin knew that just as well as the Team. Not one of them was confused about what was going on, or how they ought to react to it. While it was true that Miss Martian could read minds, it was inappropriate in this situation. If Robin was not a wolf in their fold, her intrusion might well make him into one. They could feel distrustful, and express it, but only in the proper ways. Ways which they all knew and understood without once thinking about it.

"He won't be out tonight," Robin said at length.

"How do you know?," Superboy challenged.

Robin turned his head towards Superboy, but kept his eyes low. He didn't answer, because it was a stupid question. It was the same question each member of the Team had challenged him with. And he always gave them the same nonverbal answer, which seemed almost disdainful.

"The son might be," Robin said after a moment, turning his attention back to the city.

Brother Blood seemed the more clever of the two, yet he was also full of arrogance. His over-confidence made him dangerous, as he would try things his father wouldn't dream of. But it also might well be his downfall.

"Well, where would he be then?," Batgirl demanded impatiently.

"I don't know him well enough to guess," Robin said after a lengthy silence "but I know where I would be if I wanted to...," he trailed off before his tongue betrayed him.

_I was about to say 'catch easy prey'. I'm still thinking as a son of Death. I can't afford to do that. They will see it, and know it for the thing it is. Evil._

Just as Robin had not been corrupted overnight, so he could not simply revert to his former self in a day. It would take time for him to return to the role which was his by right. Not birthright, just... right. He must be Robin, and not Brother Blood. It was his only chance at salvation.

"_No one enters Hell blindfolded"_ had someone told him that, or had he read it somewhere?.

It was very appropriate. He had not entered the den of Black Death unknowingly. He had known exactly what kind of a monster he was lying beside. There had been no trickery there. And perhaps that was the appeal. No deception, no diversion. A pure evil, one which knew no need for trickery. So unlike most, who used symbols and silver tongues to fool the unwary.

Thus he knew that Brother Blood was not "blindfolded". He knew exactly what he was doing. And, very probably, exactly why. He, Robin knew, had made his decision already. Though Robin knew that he would likely try, he knew also that his brother (half-brother, really) could not be saved. This was because he did not want to be. He was set on his chosen path, totally at peace with it. Unlike Robin, for him there was no conflict.

"Where?," Aqualad's even-toned question drew him from thought.

"The park," Robin replied.

Where the young, the ignorant and reckless are most likely to be.

* * *

Robin hung back, apart from the Team. From a tree branch, he closely observed how they worked, spreading out thinly to surround the park while Miss Martian swept through the park quickly, looking for likely targets and signs of Brother Blood.

There was more than physical separation between them. The Team were linked mentally by Miss Martian, but Robin was carefully excluded. It was somewhat doubtful he was even aware that a mental link existed. In that link, it was clear who was softening and who wasn't.

Aqualad had faith in Nightwing's judgment, and so had silenced any qualms he had about Robin's presence, rendering himself more or less indifferent. Miss Martian, knowing something about how it felt to be ostracized, was losing her cold edge. Superboy and Batgirl remained flatly, stubbornly unwilling to welcome this new Robin.

"_I don't think he's here,"_ Miss Martian said through the mental link.

"_No surprise there,"_ Superboy grunted.

"_And the kid again succeeds in wasting our time,"_ Batgirl refused to even use the name 'Robin' in relation to this newcomer.

"_Realize that he has caused us to succeed where before we failed. That we have been unable to capture Black Death is no fault of his,"_ Aqualad pointed out.

A terrible yowling-screeching, as of cats fighting, interrupted the conversation.

"_That's coming from where Robin was!,"_ nobody missed Miss Martian's use of the name.

She went at once towards the source of the noise, leaving the others to catch up. Brother Blood was here. He'd been lying in wait for Robin. The sound had been his warning to his kin that he was on the attack, and it had come just before he knocked Robin from the tree.

They scuffled about in the shallow snow, amidst tree trunks and brush, fast, chaotic, thoroughly entangled in one another. Miss Martian hesitated, unable to pick one from the other as they rolled around, Brother Blood still making that otherworldly screeching sound.

A knock-down drag-out fight is the kind of fight which, by its very nature, dooms itself to be brief. Prolonged fights are brought about by the ability of both sides at defending themselves. A successful strike brings a fight to an abrupt finish almost immediately. Fighting is about blocking attacks, and trying to get your own past your adversary's defenses.

In this, Robin had the advantage. He did not have to finish the fight. He had only to get Brother Blood off of him long enough for the Team to intervene. They were here now, all of them, waiting for the opportunity to jump in and wrestle Brother Blood to the ground.

Their one concern was putting a stop to the murder of innocent people. That desire transcended any need for an "honorable" fight. This was about right and wrong, not ritualistic battling for supremacy. Robin knew this as well as any of them.

He'd thus rolled himself into a tight ball to protect his body and now kicked out, pushing his opponent away from him with all the force he could muster, leaving himself completely open to another attack because he knew that what mattered most was giving the Team time to move in and finish it.

Superboy at once fell upon Brother Blood, wrestling the demonically screaming boy to the ground and holding him there until the battle fever subsided enough for him to yield.

"You bastard," these first venomous words were directed at Robin "I called you out, challenged you, and you stick a knife in my back with these... inferiors."

Robin, half-sitting up, panting as he regained his composure, gazed straight at him. He had no need to behave submissively to this creature. Half-closed eyes denoted indifference, the burning gaze behind them showed a passionate loathing beyond any Brother Blood might feel towards him.

"I did not accept your challenge," Robin said quietly "you knew I wouldn't, and so attacked without waiting. You and I both know who would win a fight on even ground."

Brother Blood growled inarticulately and narrowed his eyes.

"You're just mad because I managed to out-think you," Robin said, getting to his feet and dusting snow and twigs from his costume.

"You were supposed to be on our side. The best of us. I heard that a thousand times. And now look at you. Groveling at the feet of these... pitiful things like a starving dog. You weren't meant for this. It's beneath you. A lion among sheep!. You could have been a king!."

"King of the dead," Robin returned mildly "and I ask you: what need have they for a king?."

"You understand nothing."

"At least I know where I stand," Robin told him "do you?."

Brother Blood refused to respond to that.

"What was the plan for Robin?," Aqualad asked, demanded really.

Brother Blood was silent for a moment, seeming baffled. Then the light dawned.

"You mean Frater Cruor?," a slow smile spread across his face "isn't it obvious?."

"If it were, I would not be asking," Aqualad pointed out.

"He was to be a leader among men. Money, power, the status and training given to those with wealth and political standing. We are not fools."

Aqualad was still chewing on that when Brother Blood continued.

"We cannot destroy humanity one person at a time. We know that. The solution is therefor obvious."

"Set humanity against itself," Robin realized "destroy it from within."

"Precisely. But to win such a game, you must be a master of chess. To become a master, you must first be a student. None among the old guard had the position or necessary training."

"And so they needed children to do their bidding," Robin said "to rule in their stead."

"And to produce children of their own. To become a world power, a true power, takes more than a few years. A king is forever in need of a successor," Brother Blood went on "You may be able to destroy a civilization in just a few years, but all of humanity is another matter."

"Why?," Aqualad asked, then clarified "for what reason do you seek the total destruction of your own kind?. It seems as fatal path to choose."

"Have you not seen humanity?," Brother Blood spat "its shallowness, its greed, lust, gluttony. All those sins named and unnamed. Thirsting for power, demanding ever more."

"Do you not hunger for the same?," Robin challenged.

"I want only for death," Brother Blood said "but I do not want to be alone in it. I wish for the whole world to join me. Because it is there that this atrocious idea of right and wrong, this insistence on morality and misguided instinct, will be shown for the false thing that it is."

"You want there to be anarchy?," Aqualad guessed.

"I want there to be cessation of all!," Brother Blood hissed "I wish for the end to be final and fatal."

"And you want it on your own terms," Robin added for him "how little you know."

"What's that supposed to mean?," Brother Blood's eyes flashed fire as he turned to look at Robin.

"You speak of sin, and how you wish to put an end to it. What makes you think that it is within your power to do so?. Especially as you are helpless against your own true self?."

"Like you're any better," Brother Blood muttered, but he now averted his eyes as though embarrassed.

"I have no illusions," Robin explained "I know it is not within my powers to change the shape of humanity. But if I can save any single life, that's worth my time. Your cause is doomed to failure, where mine... mine is guaranteed to succeed."

"Not if you fall dead," Brother Blood growled, but his voice lacked conviction.

"You cannot kill an idea. I am not the first Robin, and it is doubtful I'll be the last," Robin said "that I exist now, and am able to do what I can. That is enough. And that is where we differ, Frater Cruor. I know what I'm capable of in the grand scheme of things. It is so little, but that doesn't matter. You think you have the power to play God, to decide what should and should not be, to decide that humanity should be destroyed because it is a vile thing. I say that is not our judgment to make."

"Our father will kill you," it was a last ditch attempt to defend his cause against Robin.

"Perhaps," Robin agreed "or perhaps I'll kill him. Either way, the world will go on."

"Not when Black Death succeeds."

"The world will end in its own time. Perhaps at the hands of Black Death, but this I very much doubt. Even if it does, it will not be because you wished it so."

* * *

_09:00 PM_

_Batcave_

"So they want to destroy the world," Batman grunted "that's nothing new."

"But it is," Nightwing observed "humans rarely want to do away with their own kind completely. It's usually a select group. It sounds as if Black Death intends to put an end to itself once it's through."

Batgirl had been unusually quiet since the capture of Brother Blood, now turned over to the police. She now spoke, but not about what they'd learned. Instead, she spoke to Robin.

"You knew he was coming after you. You used yourself as bait."

It was not a question, therefor Robin did not feel compelled to answer. He merely looked sideways at Batgirl, not quite avoiding her eyes altogether, but not meeting them either.

"Why didn't you tell us?," Miss Martian asked.

"Would you have let me do it?," Robin asked flatly.

"Not a chance," Batgirl told him "too risky."

"That," Robin said "is why I didn't tell you."

_So he really is a Bat after all,_ Batgirl thought, but shoved the thought aside ruthlessly.

She wasn't finished being angry.

"You trusted that we would help you," Aqualad said "you knew you could not win."

"As I told Brother Blood, I know exactly where I stand," Robin told him softly.

"You didn't know," Miss Martian realized "you weren't sure we'd come back for you."

"I didn't," Robin agreed.

"If we didn't, you'd have been killed," Miss Martian said.

"I would," Robin nodded.

It was felt, but not said. Robin had been willing to die to prove himself.

Robin was more or less accepted by the Team from that point on, with the exception of Batgirl. She suspected lies within lies. And rightly so, considering his track record. How could anyone know when he was being honest when lies seemed to slip so easily from his throat?.

It didn't dawn on her that Nightwing too had a habit of not being entirely truthful and yet she trusted him completely, insofar as their secret life behind the mask was concerned.

She knew, deep inside, that Robin was brother to Nightwing, but she was not willing to fully admit it, even though she had consciously thought it more than once already.


	19. Defying Gravity

_March 25__th__, 09:40 PM_

_Gotham_

It was expected that the capture of Brother Blood would lead to a stir. But there had been no sign of Black Death. Evidently, he had no intention of getting word out to the others that one of his own offspring had been caught. The Team had been hunting for him and keeping watch over the Gotham City Police Department, to no avail.

Brother Blood had been born Logan Berkeley, a boy who'd disappeared two years ago when he was ten, after inheriting his mother and step-father's fortune after their untimely demise in a car accident. Only it was no accident, was it?. No. Logan had tampered with the car, intending for them to die. After that, he had disappeared, straight into the arms of his real father and extended family, where he had learned how to fight, to be every bit as bloody minded as his sire.

Police weren't sure what to do with him. He was a minor by legal standards, but they could see he was not unaware of what he was doing. He was fully responsible for his actions, acting as a killer with total knowledge of it. No insanity plea could be made, nor could he be unleashed on juveniles of his own age. He'd kill them all in a heartbeat.

The city was in an uproar. A twelve year old boy in jail!?. They railed against this on one side. The other railed against the delay of sentence. This was not a child, but a killer feigning innocence through young age. And all demanded to know what the police were going to do about the "real" threat, Black Death. Not one of them was willing to face the fact that the son was every bit as lethal as the father, not even the ones screaming "murderer!" at the doors of the police station.

"Do you suppose they're all related to one another?," Robin asked.

He and Batgirl were standing sentinel on a rooftop across the street. She was not speaking to him.

"That would explain why they all have the same fanaticism," he went on, thinking aloud "sons and grandsons of whatever monster got the ball rolling. Recruiting would be difficult. After all, what person wants to put an end to everybody, including themselves?. Even the Joker isn't that twisted."

He was sitting with his legs over the side of the building, idly swinging them and staring off in no particular direction. The sky was clear tonight, but it was still cold. Batgirl was pacing, and steadfastly ignoring Robin, determined not to let him into her life as she had at first.

"If you want me to be quiet-"

"I want you to be quiet," Batgirl interrupted.

Robin closed his mouth and drew up one leg, putting his foot on the rooftop so he could rest his arms on his knee. He wasn't sure how he could possibly win her over. The others seemed to have accepted him, but not her. It drew him to wonder why they had been paired. It had been Nightwing's idea.

_He must know something about her that I don't, because I can't see how this is making anything better._

"He's not coming, is he?," Robin's surprise at Batgirl's having spoken to him was so great he momentarily forgot how to use his tongue.

Swallowing the shock, he shook his head.

"Blood won't get a second chance," Robin answered "I only just barely got one because I was the favorite. They don't tolerate failure on this scale, even once."

Batgirl rolled that around in her mind. She knew of only one Black Death who'd ever been caught. But he had escaped. Or had he been rescued, only to be killed by his own kind?. She didn't like all the unknowns, they made her very uncomfortable.

"What was your mistake?," Batgirl asked, deciding she wanted to switch to something less personally unsettling for her, unconsciously (or perhaps intentionally) turning to a topic uncomfortable for Robin.

He was silent for a moment before he figured out that she meant what had he done to ruin his first chance with Black Death. After all, he'd made many other mistakes, she could have been asking about any one of them.

He thought for awhile, weighing his words, trying to figure exactly what the mistake was at its source.

"Having a conscience," he said at last "not wanting to spend my life killing strangers because my relatives can't deal with reality as it is. My mistake was in realizing that I'm human, just as they are."

"And what of non-humans?," Batgirl got straight to the point, unwilling to let anything slide.

"What would you have me say?. Sentient?. Prove to me that a snail is not sentient. Prove it beyond any doubt. And then prove to me that you are sentient. Whatever that word means. I'm not above taking life. I just thought that was a simple way of saying I want no part in killing people I've no reason to want dead," Robin returned, trying but failing to keep his voice neutral.

"I'm not a scientist," Batgirl said dismissively "or a philosopher."

"Neither am I," Robin told her "so why are we fighting over terminology when we both know what I meant?. I don't want to argue. Why are you always looking for a fight where there isn't one?."

Batgirl opened her mouth, sharp retort on her tongue, but she never spoke it aloud. Nightwing had once asked her that. And she hadn't been able to answer, because she hadn't known herself what drove her to be as she was.

_Damned perceptive Bats_, she thought.

"I don't know what your problem really is," Robin said "but it's not with me, is it?."

"No," Batgirl admitted "I don't trust you, but I haven't got a problem with you," her defensive streak couldn't leave the admission be and needed to edit it "I haven't got a problem."

"Obviously," Robin was giving her that look, that look which was identical to Batman and Nightwing, that amused glint in the eyes that said: _you can try to lie to me and to yourself if you like, I won't stop you. But you ARE lying to yourself, and not very well because even you know you're lying._

"Shut up," she looked away abruptly.

But already her resolve was crumbling. It was ridiculous to think she could hate Robin but not Nightwing. Nightwing got on her nerves, sure, but he was very dear to her. And this boy was just like him in all the ways that counted. Smart, insightful, funny, determined... completely irritating...

_Dammit, Nightwing!,_ Batgirl thought,_ you knew this would happen!. You knew I couldn't hate him if I spent time with him. You manipulative jerk!._

Her anger thus restored, she settled back into stony silence. But she was melting, knew it was a losing battle, yet she was determined to fight it anyway. Her changed demeanor did not escape Robin's eyes. He now saw the logic behind Nightwing's insisting that the two of them keep watch of the police station. Nightwing knew as well as Robin that Black Death wouldn't-

**BANG!.**

The echoing sound of a gunshot reverberated through the night, forcing all other thoughts out of mind. Batgirl and Robin were both on their feet in an instant, looking around, trying to figure out where the sound originated from.

A moment later, a figure exploded out onto the roof of the police station. It dashed across, past the unlit bat signal and then used a grappling hook to get to the next building (which was much taller) over. At once, both vigilantes knew what had happened. It was Robin who gave voice to the realization.

"So he came for Blood after all, put an end to him," Robin said.

"Come on!. We'll lose him!," Batgirl was already running across the roof, reaching for her grappler.

"Wait up!. Shouldn't we call the others?," Robin dashed after her.

"No time!. Keep up will you," she hesitated, shot the hook into the wall across the street and leaped.

Robin followed suit without further argument. The way he saw it, he didn't have much choice. She had the seniority, and she was a legitimate member of the Team. It didn't matter if she knew what she was doing or not, only that she was basically in charge and so he should follow her lead.

On landing, Robin tried to disengage the grappling hook. It was caught, and Batgirl wasn't waiting for him. Robin fought with it for a moment, then decided to leave it, as she had left hers. He'd come back for it later.

Batgirl, ahead of him, had tackled Black Death and brought him to the ground. In a move like lightning, he twisted and a knife blade flashed in the darkness. Batgirl saw it, lunged backward to evade. The tip of the blade caught along her jaw, but just barely nicked her.

_Should have seen that coming,_ she chided herself, remembering that this wasn't just some thug, but an honest-to-goodness evil who was capable of taking on Batman and Nightwing together.

Or was that the other one?. Did it matter?. Best to assume all Black Death were alike.

Robin was right, they should have called the Team. She'd known it when he said it. But she had disregarded it because of who it was who'd said it. Letting personal feelings get in the way of the mission. Now what would Nightwing think of that?. She could just hear him mocking her.

But no, that's something she would do. Chances are, he would scold her playfully, and then give a ghost of an indication that he'd made the same prideful mistake himself once.

Batgirl kept her distance now. She and Black Death were circling, eyes on each other, measuring their opponent's strength, estimating their prowess, trying to guess what moves would bring victory into their corner. But there was something else.

Batgirl noticed the triumphant glint in Black Death's dark gaze a moment before her muscles began to betray her. A poisoned blade?. What kind?. How fast would it act?. Was it deadly or simply a paralytic?. Did it really matter in this instance?.

All at once, she collapsed helplessly into a heap. She found herself gazing up at Black Death, seeing the vile grin on the ugly face, the devilish shine in the eyes, eyes which were not all that different from Robin's if you looked closely. He came towards her, and she knew she was doomed.

In her head rang words Batman and Nightwing had said to her over and over, trying in vain to impress her with their import: _one mistake could cost you your life. There are no second chances in a fight. Your enemy will kill you if he can. We won't always be there to help you._

To which she'd always replied "I don't need saving". The lie had now exposed itself. Her mistake would cost Batgirl her life, and there was no one there to save her. And she couldn't, simply _could not_, save herself.

She thought_, I'm going to die._

* * *

_Batcave_

"Now that I know what to look for, it seems that Black Death is a worldwide threat," Batman said, not looking up from his computer research "newspaper articles fitting Robin's description of Black Death kills go back for almost a hundred years."

"You know it goes back farther than that," Nightwing said, from where he sat across the room, impatient to be out there hunting "this goes all the way back to before recorded history."

"That's a bit of a leap, don't you think?," Batman asked skeptically, sparing his son a glance.

"Cain and Abel," Nightwing challenged "what does that look like to you?."

"I don't see how it's the same," Batman told him, raising an eyebrow behind the cowl.

"Humans killing humans for the sake of it. Killing because they're mad that the world is unfair, that they didn't get exactly what they wanted. The 'I deserve' or 'the world deserves' syndrome is as old as time itself and we both know it."

Batman didn't reply to this, his silence being enough. Nightwing was right, of course. Perhaps this current form, this Black Death, only ranged back a hundred years, but the disease began in the heart of humanity, had been there forever, would never die. Black Death was merely a new strain. Or perhaps a very old strain only recently revived from a long sleep.

Both he and Nightwing were too well acquainted with the dark side of humanity, not to mention their own black inner selves, to deny the truth of it. Black Death was nothing new, but an ancient evil, the kind which you couldn't destroy. It would always be back, in one form or another, pushing the world down, down... ever deeper into the pit, the black abyss where chaos reigned.

"The whole world's in a state of decay," Nightwing muttered unnecessarily "it's all going down the tubes sooner or later."

"I'd rather it be later," Batman grunted "but not at all would be better."

"Now that's just nonsense, and we both know it. Humanity cleans up nice, but there's always a speck of dirt behind the ears," Nightwing said "always that one bit of filth saying 'I am here, come and join me'. You can't get rid of it entirely. Neither can I."

"Sometimes I wonder which one of us is the bigger pessimist in this family," Batman said, slightly amused by the tragically dark tone Nightwing spoke in.

"It's not being pessimistic. It's called not being delusional," Nightwing countered.

"Getting tired of playing the unwanted dark hero?," Batman asked.

"Don't be absurd," Nightwing snapped, but it was good-humored kind of rebuttal "one can acknowledge the power of evil without giving in to it. I've got my reasons to fight, and they're not going away. You know that, I don't have to tell you."

"You're right. You don't," Batman agreed.

"So," Nightwing sighed "what are we going to do about this fox in our hen house?."

"Our?. I thought you were going back to Blüdhaven."

"What?. And miss all the excitement around here?. Gotham's my home too."

"You can't have it both ways," Batman scolded him gently "you can't patrol two cities. Gotham has plenty of vigilantes, Blüdhaven only has you, and then only when you're not preoccupied with the Team."

"Are you trying to tell me something?."

"If I was, do you think I would beat around the bush?."

"Yes," Nightwing said coolly "you're all about mystery. You never say things straight out, or at least you don't say everything you're thinking."

"Nor do you," Batman pointed out.

"And my friends hate me for it. Come on, out with it. This is about Robin, isn't it?. And how I botched up his training. You think you should take over and I should get out of the way."

"I didn't say that."

"You didn't have to. I can see it in your eyes. You're disappointed in me. You're always disappointed."

"I'm not-" Batman began, but Nightwing cut him off.

"Don't lie to me. Not you. You know better. You blame me for Tim just like you blamed me for Jason!."

"The only one blaming you for that," Batman said slowly "is you."

Nightwing fell silent, but it was a strange silence. Typically, his silences were open, Batman could read them just by looking at him. But not now. He'd closed down, shut Batman out of his thoughts. Batman knew his own silence which had been brought on by grief was partly to blame, as was his anger at how Jason had died. Nightwing had interpreted it to be directed at him, where the truth was that Batman directed it at himself. A code based on silence and that which was not said had its drawbacks.

"I'm the one who said he was ready to join the Team. I was the one who trained him, I was the one who let him go. If anyone is to blame, it's me," Batman said, hoping to get through to Nightwing.

"There's nothing you could have done," Nightwing told him "there was no chance. I knew, I knew, that someone was going to die. But... I guess maybe I thought it'd be me. I let the mission take priority. I led the Team into that situation. It shouldn't have happened."

"The mission always comes first," Batman said "Jason knew that as well as any of us. He did not follow you blindly. He knew what he was doing."

"Did he?," Nightwing asked, though the question in his eyes was far more penetrating.

_Do any of us?._

"Surely you haven't forgotten him so quickly," Batman scolded "he'd have been furious if you ever asked that question of him. He'd have punched you."

"Yeah," Nightwing said, a bereaved but not entirely humorless smile touching his face at memory of his lost brother "he would at that."

They said no more about it. They didn't have to.

* * *

_Gotham_

Robin had missed only the first few seconds of the fight. What felt like an eternity for Batgirl had only been just enough time for him to abandon his grappler and scamper after her. It had been over in seconds for her. Robin took in the scene with a sweeping glance, and knew he would last no longer than she, even knowing that a poisoned blade was in play.

He had but a single advantage: he had nothing to lose.

Black Death not only had to win, but escape as well. The police would be here in moments. He could not afford to be badly injured or completely exhausted. Robin, on the other hand, needed not save his energy as he had only a single chance to win. To survive.

But even that, he knew, would not be enough. Everything he had would just barely make a dent. He had to find a way to put a sudden and complete end to this, before it even began. His eyes darted to Batgirl, lying prone on the roof, then to Black Death, slowly stalking toward her, enjoying this moment. Then he looked at the edge of the roof. Twelve inches. He took a breath. Twelve miserable inches from the edge. Could he knock Black Death so far?.

Not without going over the side himself. He closed his eyes, feeling his body begin to tremble.

_No,_ he ordered himself,_ Tim can fear gravity._

Funny how, once again, there was no escape for him. But, for the first time in his life, that didn't bother him. This was something he didn't want to try and escape from. This was... right. It was who he was, what he was meant to do and be. And he was alright with that now.

His shaking stilled as he collected himself, crouching low in the shadows, edging his way forward, completely unnoticed. He knew he had to somehow unbalance his opponent. He had to get at the emotions of Black Death. And he knew just how to do it. He just had to say it. Just open his mouth and say it, wait just long enough for the words to sink in, then spring. It wasn't hard. It wasn't. Tim could fear gravity, yes...

_But Robin must defy it._

He opened his eyes.

"Leave my family be," Robin used as savage a tone as he was capable of "or I will kill you."

Startled as much by the voice as the owner of it, Black Death turned. His eyes glittered in the night, an evil presence radiating from him in the dark. Robin felt it, but was not afraid. He couldn't afford it.

Batgirl's eyes widened. She wanted to stop him. If she could have, she would have cried out, told him to run. She knew Robin stood absolutely no chance. And too, she knew that he'd already had his second chance, that now Black Death would kill him for sure. He was going to get himself killed, and she could do nothing about it but lie there and watch.

Robin waited for a breath. Two. Then three.

At last, the look he was waiting for crossed his father's face. The look of confidence, supreme arrogance, the amusement that Robin should make such a threat. He could not inspire fear in his father, that much he knew. But this was the next best thing. Black Death thought him absurd.

_Well, father. We'll see how long that lasts._

He launched himself, coming in low, every muscle contributing to its fullest ability. Black Death was taken by surprise as Robin plowed into his midsection. Robin had grown quite a lot the last few months. Though he was still small when compared with Black Death, he was no longer undersize for his age. He had grown heavier, stronger, and more experienced.

And he had not forgotten the value of the ice, which was a thin sheen on the rooftop. It was this that betrayed him, however. They slid across the roof, but hit a rough patch. Instead of going over the side, they fell one on top of the other.

Robin knew that this was bad. He changed his angle of attack, locked close in with Black Death.

Batgirl watched in wide eyed horror as the father gripped hold of the son in the manner of a child holding a doll, set on ripping the limbs right off it before casting it aside, broken and no longer wanted. Robin thrashed in the deadly grip of those iron-strong hands, writhing in pain as much as panic. The effort and agony wrung cries from him, but he hadn't given up.

Fraction by fraction, inch by painful inch, he pushed and shoved, fighting them closer to the edge. His breath came in strangled gasps as he grappled with his father, who had yet to realize that there was a real plan in place here, believing Robin's entire idea had been to simply fling himself at Black Death and just hope to get lucky.

Such was not the case. Like the Robins before him, this Robin had thought it out. He knew the risks, anticipated the price which would have to be paid, and the cost of failure. Even Batgirl could see that. In his initial strike, Robin had managed to kick the knife aside with a boot, it was lost and considered irrelevant by its former wielder, who felt himself strong enough without it.

Suddenly, Robin made his move. He had been pushing, yet now he flipped like a caught fish. Black Death held onto him as he thrashed, rolling with him.

_NO!,_ Batgirl's mind screamed, but she could not give voice to it.

They teetered on the brink for an instant, figures of dark and light locked in mortal combat. And then, all at once, they were gone over the side and out of view.

Just like that. There and gone in an instant.

Though she could not scream, Batgirl found that she could cry.

Tears streaming down her face, she fought against the paralytic, ordering her body to do her bidding. For what seemed like hours, she fought it, finally managing to just drag herself to the edge and look down.

Snow swirled through the air, caught up in the howling wind. Batgirl's vision was blurred by tears which she ruthlessly tried to rub away so that she could see.

Ten stories down, there was a blob of darkness. For a moment it looked like a black pit in the earth. Then Batgirl recognized it for what it was. Black Death lay there, dead. But where was Robin?. Her eyes searched frantically, but did not see him.

_That's impossible,_ she thought, but looking again didn't make him appear.

_Where did he go?. He just... vanished._


	20. Something Immortal

_A/N: I'd like to thank you all for reading and I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Please enjoy this final chapter of the story. Thank you again, and good night._

* * *

_10:00 PM_

_Gotham_

When Batgirl and Robin had failed to report in at the scheduled time, Aqualad, Miss Martian and Superboy had come looking for them. What they'd found at first was just that the post was abandoned. There was a flurry of activity on the ground, which Miss Martian was the first to realize had to do with a body. From the bioship, they followed the crowd like a trail of ants from the front of the police station to the building down the street.

There they found Black Death lying on the sidewalk, seemingly dead, surrounded by policemen trying to keep onlookers at bay until they could figure out what had happened here.

From their position above the buildings, the Team were quickly able to spot Batgirl sitting propped up by the low roof barrier, facing away from the activity as though she couldn't bear to watch. Robin was nowhere to be found. That said it all.

A moment later, they were all on the rooftop. Batgirl stared at them out of drug and tear glazed eyes. She lifted her head, acknowledging them, but made no move to get up. Fighting the drugs enough to drag herself over here had exhausted her, as had the sorrow at having lost Robin.

Miss Martian covered her mouth with her hand to withhold a soft cry.

_No,_ she thought, _he can't be dead._

"_Robin?. Robin, can you hear me?. Are you there?,"_ she called out mentally, searching for him, realizing with a pang that Robin had never been mentally linked with the Team before.

The wind howled in reply.

"Are you alright?," Aqualad knew the answer, of course, but the true question was whether or not Batgirl was simply injured or in the process of dying.

"He couldn't win. He didn't stand a chance," Batgirl whispered "he knew he couldn't win. He did it for me. To save... me. And after I was so mean to him..."

"He knew your heart by your actions, not your words," Aqualad assured her gently, deciding that sorrow right now was her greatest hurt, not poison.

"So that's it then?," Superboy asked, looking over the edge "it's over?. Just like that?."

"There are many such creatures in the world," Aqualad reminded him "but I suggest we save them for another day. Today the victory was ours."

"No," Batgirl corrected him quietly "it was Robin's."

"_Um... I'd like to get down now, if that's alright with everybody."_

They all heard it, looked at one another to be sure, then ran to the edge and looked down.

Robin was wedged into the shallow recess of a window, just barely hanging on and flattening out every time the wind blew, endeavoring to hold on and avoid being spotted by those below. It was for this reason that Batgirl hadn't seen him. And he hadn't called out because... well, quite frankly... he hadn't the breath left for it.

"He's alive?," Batgirl asked, not quite believing it "he's alive?."

"He is alive," Aqualad assured her.

"Damned Bats," Superboy observed "always so dramatic about everything."

"Like Superman is any better," Miss Martian jested before floating down to retrieve Robin.

He yelped once before she deposited him on the roof as carefully as she could. He lay where he'd been dropped, shivering and panting so heavily he seemed to be hyperventilating. His eyes were sort of glazed over, he was in pain and shock.

_Not only can Tim fear gravity, _Robin thought,_ he most certainly DOES fear it._

"Are you hurt?," Miss Martian asked.

Slowly, shakily, he turned his head in her direction. He said nothing, just a pair of dark eyes staring out from behind a black mask framed in a very pale face. What kind of dumb question was that?.

Before his mind could entirely wrap itself around the thought, Batgirl threw her arms about him in an awkward hug. She had dragged herself over, not quite having the feeling back in her legs. She tipped them both over, as neither had the strength to hold the other upright.

"You stupid, idiotic, moron," not one word spoken by Batgirl contained anything other than affection "why'd you go and do a crazy thing like that?. I thought you'd died!."

She let him go, realizing he couldn't answer with her squeezing the life out of him.

"It seemed," he wheezed, then stopped to regain his breath and use of his voice "like the right answer."

_Yep. That's a Bat. So calm about the whole thing. Staring death in the face and just saying 'meh, whatever'_, Batgirl thought.

And too, she realized that this was not merely a Bat. This was Robin. Still shaking with fear, yet he was making jokes, trying to brush the whole thing off as though it were just a normal day. It wasn't hiding exactly, no. He wasn't hiding from reality. It was deeper still, something else.

He was protecting _them_. Concealing the fear and pain with a joke, telling them everything was alright, nothing they needed to be concerned with. And too, this was Tim, who was unaccustomed to the concern of others, viewing himself as both unwanted and worthless.

And Batgirl had cruelly contributed to that. She saw that now.

"I'm sorry," she said quietly, unable to stop herself.

If she had her way, she'd have said it in private at some later time. But it had to be said now, or it never would be. She realized this only after the words had escaped her.

"You were paralyzed. There's nothing you could have done," Robin replied, evidently completely misunderstanding her even as his eyes said that he knew what she meant.

_You were paralyzed._

There was truth in those words, even beyond their obvious meaning. And that too was very typical Bat behavior. Forgiving a transgression by turning it aside, pretending not to notice the apology out of some kind of bizarre need to protect the person apologizing. It was maddening, and also probably one of the most sensitive things a Bat would ever do.

Looking at him, Batgirl finally saw him for what he was. Robin. Purely and simply, as though he'd been born to it. Or called to it. Where one Robin had fallen, a new one had risen almost immediately to take his place. A different person lay beneath the mask, but the mask itself was the same.

This was not some knockoff, nor any would-be hero. This was the real thing.

_This is Robin._

* * *

_11:00 PM_

_Batcave_

The Team had gone home. Gotham no longer needed them. Black Death was gone from Gotham, but alive and well in other places. There was much work to be done on that front, work long overdue.

"Do you suppose we'll get them all?," Batgirl asked hopefully.

"Of course," Nightwing spoke the words because she needed to hear them "it's a good Team, and they know what to look for now. It won't be long, they can't hide forever."

She saw the lie behind his eyes, but ignored it. She closed her eyes and was willfully blind.

"It's been a long night. I think I'll go home," Batgirl said once she had managed to convince herself of the illusion Nightwing presented for her "you two gonna be okay here without me?."

"We're good," Nightwing told her with a smile.

Batman was out doing what the Dark Knight did best. Nightwing and Robin were resting comfortably in the Batcave, or as comfortably as was possible for them given their injuries.

Nightwing was very nearly recovered, but the road for Robin had only just begun. Batgirl smiled at that thought. Double meaning was absolutely everywhere with these guys.

"Something funny?," Nightwing asked.

"It's just... I don't know. Seeing you and Robin together... I've missed that," it was as close as she would ever come to admitting that Nightwing had been right all along, that this boy was Robin.

Robin, seemingly half-asleep, opened his eyes to look at her in some surprise. Batgirl, satisfied at having given him a good-natured startle, turned away with a flip of her hair.

After she'd left, Robin and Nightwing exchanged sober glances.

"You lied to her," Robin said "why?."

"Because that's what she wanted," Nightwing replied "she didn't want to hear the truth. Knowing it would only keep her up at night."

"But shouldn't she... know?," Robin asked, brow furrowing "doesn't she need to know?."

"She already does," Nightwing explained in the tone of a patient teacher speaking to an especially dim-witted but well-loved child "She knows what monsters lurk in the dark. Everyone does, deep inside. They know and see the truth, but turn a blind eye. Maybe because they're afraid of the monsters in the dark. Or, more likely, because they're afraid of the beast inside."

"Black Death will exist forever in some form," Robin said matter-of-factly "it always has, and always will. For as long as there are people in the universe, so too will there be monsters."

Nightwing looked at his brother with shadowed sympathy. Some people never accepted that fact, no matter how old they got. It seemed that the ones like him, like Batman, and like Robin, they all saw it when they were very young. Too young, by most standards.

They were shown their purpose as young children, their lives carefully prepared them for the day when they would don the mask and play their part in destiny, whatever part that was.

"And so long as there are monsters," Nightwing said "so too will there be heroes to stand in their way."

"Only if good people get up and do it," Robin countered dismally "because they're the only ones who will. And vigilantes alone aren't enough. We just treat the worst symptoms of a larger disease."

"There is only so much we can do," Nightwing admitted "but we have to believe that it will be enough, because it's all we have to give."

Robin didn't know it, but he was the proof of heroes, at least to Nightwing. Without human interference, it seemed the universe had aligned itself in just the right way to ensure that there would always be a Robin. When Dick had left the mantel behind, Jason was quick to take it up. When Jason fell, Tim was right there, carrying on the line.

As Tim himself had once said "you cannot kill an idea".

Even as Black Death was the monster you could not kill, the heroes behind their masks were also such in their own right. Something real, something undeniable. Something Immortal.

There was good, and there was evil. There was black and white. There was wrong and right. Everyone had the potential to be good or to be evil.

Nightwing knew himself to be capable of such atrocities as he'd never seen, knew that part of himself existed, was as real and solid as he was now. But it was a voice he refused to recognize, did not listen to. It was always there, whispering, but it could do nothing without his consent.

Darkness and light, they were choices. Not just the big ones, but the little ones as well. Nightwing knew he was defined by his choices, just as Robin was.

Therein lay the paradox. What guarantee was there that the line of heroes would be everlasting, when each and every one of them might well choose the side of villainy instead?.

But Nightwing found that this did not concern him greatly, for the flip side was that any potential villain might just as well make the choices which allowed him to be a hero.

Robin was living proof of the paradox resolving itself to conclusion. Born to be used for evil, he was taken away before that path was set. It had been a hard road, but it was that very road which had led him here, so far from the original intent behind his birth.

"Batgirl's really into PDA isn't she?," the remark startled Nightwing from his thoughts.

He knew what PDA stood for, but wasn't sure if Robin did. Several things ran through his mind. Public Display of Annoyance. Public Display of Arrogance. Public Display of Anger.

"How so?," he asked finally, having run down every possibility in his mind.

"She likes giving hugs for one thing," Robin said.

_She does?._ Nightwing wondered, but said nothing.

"She seemed very emotional," Robin nodded.

"Well," Nightwing began, not quite sure they were talking about the same person "I guess she is a girl," _wouldn't she just kill me for that line?._

"Miss Martian wasn't that excited to see me. Or, anyway, she didn't put it out there for the whole world to see. Though she can scream pretty loud in her head."

"Can't she though?," Nightwing found he could agree with that.

"Nobody ever yelled inside my head before," Robin said "I think my brain is still vibrating from it."

"Gets ya right where you live, doesn't it?."

They fell into a companionable silence. Nightwing didn't know, but surely must have suspected that Robin was thinking along lines very similar to his own.

At last, he had a sense of belonging. Not based upon other people, how they might use him or need him, but out of his own choice of who to serve.

Because he knew that you only got to choose who or what you served. And you _would_ serve, like it or not. Whether it was drugs or money, power or fame, science or magic, destruction or creation, self interest or charity, justice or vengeance, you would serve. You only got to pick your idol. The wrong choice could lead to disastrous consequences. And it was a choice. Nobody had forced him to become Robin. Nor did he believe it happened by accident. He had always been meant to be this, had known it always, but nothing had forced him to become it. He'd chosen it himself.

And now he was bound to it, willing or unwilling, he had chosen his path and must now walk it. He wasn't afraid, there was peace in this choice, where there hadn't been before.

He knew that it wasn't Nightwing he'd answer to in the end, or the Team or Kaldur, nor even Batman. It was the mask. The symbol of his conscience, visual representation of the promise he made. Just as Nightwing was bound to this, so too was Robin.

He looked over at his brother, who was sitting at the computer, unconsciously adopting a pose of supreme confidence, just shy of complete power. One who would balk at the touch of any would-be master. Any, that is, save for one.

Robin saw in his brother the same contentment he now felt. Wild at heart and free of spirit, Nightwing was nonetheless subservient to his chosen master. Robin knew that there was a return given in making this choice. He knew he was not alone in the dark, that Nightwing too was capable of things every bit as twisted as any villain. It was their choice to make, whether they wanted to be of the darkness or light. Of course, the truth was they were a product of both, it was only a matter of their choices.

They were the shadows, knowingly and willingly treading that paper-thin line between good and evil, balancing there precariously because no one else would. Or, perhaps, no one else could.

"I don't want the money," Robin said, referring to the Westfield fortune which had been left to Lady Westfield's daughter who had, in turn, left all to her son.

"That's stupid," Nightwing replied, almost in a tone of rebuke.

"It was intended to serve a destructive purpose," Robin persisted.

"As were you," Nightwing countered.

He didn't mention that Superboy was also like that, created to be a weapon yet choosing his own path. That was a personal matter. If Superboy wanted to share his origin story with Robin some day, let him. But that was his place, not Nightwing's.

Robin was silent, chewing on that. Finally he spat it out.

"It was meant for me to use to destroy. I won't take it. I don't care where it goes, so long as it's not to me," Robin said this vehemently, he really meant it.

"It's not alive," Nightwing said "it doesn't represent anything. It's just money. What makes it good or evil is what you choose to use it for. It will only be destructive if you let it be. The money can't change who you are. It can't hurt you, or anyone else, if you don't allow it to."

"Then you keep it. I want nothing to do with it," Robin told him, still bristling at the idea of doing anything with the money formerly belonging to Lady Westfield and meant by the Black Death to help them in their bloody crusade to destroy the world.

Nightwing was silent for a time. He remembered a time, years ago now, when he had refused something which another thought was meant for him. He remembered the words of Aqualad when he accepted leadership of the Team. Nightwing was still puzzled as to why Aqualad thought him a leader.

By the same token, Robin must be confused as to why Nightwing felt he should take the money.

_Even standing together, we still stand apart,_ Nightwing thought dimly, and not entirely unhappily.

It was from their many differences that the Team got its strength. If they were all the same, there would be no sense in them banding as one. It was in their different thoughts and abilities that they achieved victory. Very well, let Robin think his own thoughts, in his own way. Nightwing had no business interfering. And, like Aqualad, he was willing to wait.

Sooner or later, Robin would see the value in the money. This hero stuff wasn't free.

"Alright," Nightwing said "I'll hang onto it for you, if you like. But it would be mine in name only, yours to have and use whenever you're ready for it."

He noticed that Robin merely nodded, didn't insist that he would never want it. Even now, that sharp mind was working, thinking about the problem, following it through to a logical conclusion.

_Good boy,_ Nightwing thought, watching his brother think out of the corner of his eye, _don't be ruled by prejudice or let your personal feelings close doors which should be open to you._

But he didn't let this particular thought linger. He didn't want to be student and master, teacher and pupil. He just wanted them, for the moment, to be brothers. No more, no less.

There was a gasp and a thud from the door which led into the manor. Alfred had opened the door and started down the stairs, only to be overtaken by the insistent Etilka. The dog had scented her chosen master down here in the cave and _nothing_ was going to stop her from getting to him.

Alfred, dignity momentarily fractured, regained his feet and dusted himself off indignantly.

"That animal is a menace," he muttered to himself.

Etilka came to a sliding stop near Robin. Her head darted forward and her teeth clicked sharply, just barely slicing through the fabric of his costume and grazing the skin of his arm.

"Ow!," Robin jerked his arm away from the dog.

Etilka just showed her teeth and growled. Robin glared at her. A moment later, she half-jumped on him and licked the spot she'd bitten, then put her paws back on the floor with a sweep of her tail.

"That beast is impossible," Alfred said emphatically.

"She's just mad that I left her alone," Robin replied neutrally "I could have done without the bite though. That hurt."

It seemed an absurd thing to say, considering what he'd just survived. A little bit of lost skin was probably the least significant injury he sustained all night, not to mention the least painful. The dog just looked up at him impassively. She didn't care what he said, she knew he could take it.

_She knew all along,_ Robin realized, _somehow, she just knew._

Therein lay the difference between dog and man. The dog wouldn't let Robin get away with anything. She knew exactly who and what he was, and would not allow him to lie to himself or pretend to be something he was not. All the time, she had been goading him, demanding that he become what he was meant to be, attacking because he cowered before her. Well, no more of that.

Born in darkness, but trying to make the world just a little bit less like the Hell he'd come from. This was the truth, he believed, lying buried beneath all who wore the mask. And, he now knew, such shadows had always been, and would always be. He wondered if, when he fell, there would be another to take on his name. He supposed probably so.

He no longer had anything to fear from the white dog. Or anyone. He was a shadow of the night.

And that was something immortal, even if he as a person was not.

* * *

_May 12__th__, 04:00 AM_

_Gotham_

The days had grown warmer over the last month. At long last, spring had beaten out winter, bringing life-giving rain to the earth and warm winds to the air. This morning it was fairly cool, but not cold, a light rain was misting. The weather was not the only thing which had changed.

Three shadows danced and darted, only slightly darker than the world around them, seemingly bound by nothing save for the wind and purest whim, cavorting amongst one another like playful ghosts. They were enjoying themselves, there was no doubt about that.

Tonight they had put a stop to many crimes, but things were winding down with the threat of morning. The three of them were headed home, still high from the adrenalin of the night, far from feeling tired or in any way sleepy.

Nightwing was at the lead, or mostly so anyway, making a wayward line for home, Robin moving like a liquid shadow beside him, Batgirl following along, enjoying their company even though she was forever separate from them, bound to a world of her own choosing as they were bound to theirs.

Like real birds, the two of them seemed to dash among the raindrops without ever getting wet, leaping from one roof to another without preparation or hesitation, one right after the other as though they were somehow attached, Batgirl separated by only the barest hesitation which was marked only by herself.

She wasn't sure what they were so happy about, but she was enjoying this rare glimpse of them. Bats were typically of the sober, serious format, though Nightwing made it his habit to joke and make light of a situation and Robin seemed to follow that tendency. Gleeful romping in the rain was entirely odd.

She paused a moment to catch her breath. They seemed to take no notice, but they did circle the rooftop like hyper children unable to sit still. They were waiting for her, acknowledging her without speaking or looking at her.

Nightwing had fully recovered by this point, sleek as a cat and every bit as agile. Robin now and then showed a slight twinge or lurch, so mild that only someone really looking for it could see it, but he was mostly recovered as well.

All of a sudden their demeanor changed. One of them had seen something, the other responded instantly. Batgirl wasn't sure who had seen and who was reacting, but both went to the edge of the roof and looked down. Batgirl joined them.

Down below, a mugging was in progress.

"You want this one?," Robin asked, casting a glance at Nightwing, who shook his head, then turning to Batgirl "you?."

"All yours, kid," Batgirl told him.

Delighted, the Boy Wonder hopped from the roof to a fire escape railing a story below, seeming to defy gravity to knock him off. Like an old hand, the hunter went about his dark but necessary work while his friends looked on, knowing as they did that this was proof of who he was, who he was meant to be, who he would continue to be. And too, it was a hint at what he would become.

For here, at the very end of it, the story finds its true beginning. Where one story ends, another begins. Such is the way of death. And too, it is the way of life. Something infinite, everlasting...something...

_Immortal._

* * *

"_So when this corruptible shall have put on incorruption  
and this mortal shall have put on immortality,  
then shall be brought to pass the saying that is written,  
Death is swallowed up in victory."_

_-1 Corinthians 15:54_


End file.
